This Present Darkness
by Lamiel
Summary: Post ROTK. When a new power threatens Gondor, Legolas is caught in a desperate struggle to save Aragorn's soul. COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

**This Present Darkness**

by Lamiel

**Disclaimer:** Middle-earth and its inhabitants are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien and are claimed by many people, none of whom is me. No profit is made from their use here, and no disrespect is intended.

**Warning: **This is a story about power. It is a story of lust, and greed, and what happens when good intentions are turned to evil purpose. Bad things happen. Good people get hurt. And not all stories have a happy ending.

**But **it is also a story about friendship. It is about the power and strength of love in its purest form, free of selfish desire or personal gain. It is about the kind of love that I believe Tolkien envisioned at the heart of all his great friendships, the kind that enabled a Hobbit to save the world, and a Ranger to become King. For Aragorn and Legolas, that love is about to have its greatest test yet.

It is not my intention that this be a straightforward horror fic, or a slash fic. However, it is going to get intense. Very intense. I will post warnings at the beginning of chapters that include scenes of violence or sexual content. If those themes disturb you, please heed the warnings and do not read them.

Now . . . let's get deep.

"In that hour I looked on Aragorn and thought how great and terrible a Lord he might have become in the strength of his will . . ."

– Legolas, _The Last Debate_

Prologue

It was snowing on the Pelennor fields. Thin flakes swirled from a slate-grey sky to lightly dust the barren earth, blurring the frozen ruts and divots of the plain. The sun was a faint smear low over the western hills. Watching from her chamber window, Arwen thought about spring in Imladris. At home, the seasons had behaved sensibly. Eichur[1] had followed rhîw,[2] and the advent of Gwaeron[3] was heralded by the stirring of the earth, the awakening of the trees from their sleep and the birds building their nests. There had been rain and wind, certainly, but never snow.

Yet here already it was two weeks past the New Year, and still rhîw refused to yield her grip. _Winter_, Arwen corrected herself. Four years she had lived in Minas Tirith, and still it was hard to keep from slipping back into the old habits, customs that came to her as naturally as breathing. But if she was to rule the Men of Gondor, she ought at least to speak their language.

Well, whatever one called it, it was cold. Much too cold for March, and while at home they would have celebrated the New Year with dances and feasts on Rivendell's lawn, here the Men had drunk their King's health with hot mead, huddled around the fires of the great hall and alehouses in the city.

A gust of chill wind rattled the windowpanes and crept icy fingers through the cracks about the lintel. Arwen drew her quilted shawl more closely over her shoulders. Was this natural? She had spent most of her life in the sheltered realms of Imladris or Lothlórien, and now she wondered just how much of an effect the Elven Rings had had in regulating her home's environment. Perhaps she would ask Legolas what the weather was like in Eryn Galen.[4] No one had talked about that aspect of it when they'd planned to destroy the One Ring. The fading of the Elves, yes, the dominion of Men, yes, even the encroachment of Orcs and spiders and creatures of Shadow, had their plans gone amiss. But not one person had mentioned the possibility of snow when it should be spring. _They talked about everything else at the Council._ Shouldn't they have at least brought that detail up for a vote?

She was avoiding thinking about the real issue, she knew. A luxury: to lose herself in idle musings about the weather and the Rings, to forget, if only for a moment. Still she could see through the milky haze of leaded glass and snow, and picked out the figure of a horse and riders coming through the muddy fields toward the city.

The door behind her opened. "His Majesty, King Elessar, my lady," her maidservant announced, and Arwen nodded without turning around. There was the scrape of hinges as the door opened wide, and then the click of his boot heels on the stone flags. Arwen tensed in anticipation, but Aragorn did not speak as he came to stand behind her. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, and she felt the brush of his thumbs at the back of her neck. She shuddered, but if he noticed he gave no sign.

For a time they stood together, watching as the sky darkened and shadows pressed against the glass. Finally Arwen spoke. "He is coming," she said in a low voice. "He will be here within the hour."

Aragorn's face was expressionless, broken and reflected in the distorted glass. "Good," he said.

Arwen hesitated. "The Dwarf is with him," she said.

A muscle tensed in the King's jaw, and his hands tightened on her shoulders. "Gimli? I did not order that."

Arwen avoided his eyes in the mirrored window. "Gimli always travels with him. You know that."

"He was summoned to come alone. He disobeyed me."

Her mouth was dry. "Not intentionally, my lord. I'm sure that he only thought –"

"What he thought does not matter. What he has done is dishonor the King of Gondor."

When Arwen did not answer his hands moved to her hair, an old habit. The brush of his fingers over her skin still had the power to send a thrill all through her, but now his hands tightened at her scalp, forcing her to meet his gaze in the window. "Do you not agree, my lady?"

"Of course, my lord," she gasped, trying to ignore the chill in his voice, the strength of his arms as he held her close. "But I am sure he does not do so deliberately. He is loyal to you."

"Is he?" Aragorn's hands loosened from her hair, dropping to her waist as his eyes grew distant. "We shall see. But . . . perhaps it is for the best." He paused for a long moment, and then his jaw tightened decisively. "Yes. It may be just as well." With that he released her, turning away. "I must summon the Council," he said. "Now that Legolas is here, we are ready to begin."

"They have had a long journey," Arwen said, too quickly. Her heart was pounding. "He will need rest, before the Council."

Aragorn paused at the doorway, and she chanced a look back at him over her shoulder. The line of his shoulders lifted beneath his red surcoat, and then relaxed. "Of course," he said, and turned to meet her gaze with a faint smile. The guttering candles cast the rugged planes of his face in shadow. "You didn't think I'd summon him to the Hall covered in mud, did you?"

Arwen did not answer. He held her eyes for a moment, and then shrugged and looked away. "Their usual rooms have been prepared. The Council will meet tomorrow."

His boots rapped sharply over the floor as he strode to the door. His voice drifted back from the antechamber, ordering meat and wine for the guests. There was a flurry of activity as servants ran to obey, and then the rooms grew still again.

Arwen bowed her head, pressing her forehead against the cold glass, and closed her eyes. She breathed deeply, and slowly the tension eased from her neck and shoulders. The life stirred within her again, and she wrapped her arms about her waist, hugging herself close. Time was growing short, and if this did not work… _It will work. It has to. _She opened her eyes again and stared unseeing at the night-shaded glass.

_Hurry, Legolas,_ she thought. _Please hurry._

* * *

[1] _Eichur_: Sindarin, early spring, lit. "stirring." _Appendix D, The Calendars_.

[2] _rhîw_: Sindarin, winter. _ibid._

[3] _Gwaeron_: Sindarin, the month equivalent to March. _ibid. _

[4] _Eryn Galen: _Greenwood, Sindarin. The name given to Mirkwood before the coming of the Shadow.

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**Coming in 2013:** _The Gloaming_, an original novel by Lamiel. In a world ruled by monsters, you have to be a monster to survive.


	2. Part I: The Board is Set

**A/N:** This chapter, like all my work, was much improved by the hard labor and patience of my wonderful beta, Angel.

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**Part I: The Board is Set**

"We have heard tell that Legolas took Gimli Glóin's son with him..."

-J.R.R. Tolkien, Appendix A, The Lord of the Rings

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Chapter 1: Friends Like These

Arod's hooves echoed hollowly in the narrow passage. With the coming of evening the snow had given way to a freezing rain that lashed between the darkened buildings, whipping back their hair and stinging their eyes. Legolas urged the horse faster over the deserted cobbles, mindful of the shivering and increasingly irate Dwarf behind him.

Gimli's usual complaints about horseback riding in general, Legolas' horsemanship specifically, the weather, the speed of their travel, the weather, Elves in general, Legolas in particular, and the weather had degenerated in the last day of their journey into a steady stream of what Legolas could only assume to be Khuzdul1, which in turn had lapsed into an ominous silence as they picked their way through the frozen fields and finally into the city itself.

They rounded the last turn and clattered to a halt in the empty stable yard before the entrance to the seventh circle. When they had stopped fully and Arod stood quiet at Legolas' command, Gimli finally released the vise grip that he had kept locked around the Elf's waist. Legolas sighed in relief as the pressure eased from his ribs. Despite all their journeys together from Fangorn to Eryn Galen and beyond, Gimli had never yet overcome his dislike of horses as a means of transport, and the Dwarf was very strong. _Fear_ of horses, Legolas would have been tempted to say, except that every time he implied such a weakness on the part of his riding companion he had found a Dwarven axe aimed at his head.

So the Elf made no comment, but swung lightly down from Arod's back. He stretched his arms up over his head, exulting in the chance to move freely again after long days of riding, and took a deep breath. The cold air seared deep into his lungs and he laughed, rising on tiptoe to stretch the muscles of his legs.

"Foolish Elf," Gimli's deep voice sounded exasperated, but Legolas caught the amused glint in the Dwarf's dark eyes as he turned back toward him. Gimli was still perched atop Arod, his hands knotted in the horse's mane as he eyed the distance to the ground.

Legolas smiled. "Talking to me again, are you?" he said, laying one hand on Arod's nose to steady him and reaching the other toward his friend.

Gimli snorted. "Not that it'll do any good. You never listen to me when I do talk to you." Ignoring the proffered hand he pulled his leg over the stallion's back with a grunt and dropped to ground. He staggered as his boots skidded on the ice-slicked cobbles, but kept his feet.

"Hardly fair, Master Dwarf," Legolas said as a light shone briefly in the darkened stable beside them. "If you want me to listen then you'll have to do more than swear at me in Khuzdul."

"I was speaking Sindarin, you half-brained pointy-eared nitwit!" Gimli snapped, his breath frosting in the air before him. Arod laid back his ears and sidestepped at the Dwarf's tone. "I told you to slow down!"

Legolas paused in the act of rubbing Arod's forehead. "Sindarin?" he asked. The stable door opened and a lanky stable boy made his way toward them, clutching a cloak over his head with one hand while a lamp bobbed fitfully in the other.

"Yes!" Gimli was hopping a bit on the spot, whether from rage or in an attempt to restore circulation to his legs Legolas was uncertain. "I said _'noro lim!' 'noro lim!'_ 'Slow down!'"

"Ah." Legolas bent quickly on the pretext of inspecting Arod's feet, his long hair swinging forward to hide his smile. "Well, I think we have discovered why your riding lessons with Arod have not gone as expected, Master Dwarf. _'Noro lim'_ means that you wish to go faster."

He glanced up to find that Gimli had paused with one foot half off the ground, surveying him with narrowed eyes. "'Go faster?'"

Legolas nodded. The stable hand was now standing a few feet away, eyeing the unbridled and unfettered Arod nervously.

"No it doesn't," Gimli said as Legolas guided Arod toward the stable, the servant standing well back with lantern raised high. "It means –"

"'_Noro_,' the imperative form of '_nor_,' 'to ride' –"

"I am _not_ interested, Legolas –"

"Lothlórien? Haldir?"

Gimli stopped. "'Daro'?" he said in a small voice. They had reached the shelter of the stable door, and Arod, needing no further encouragement, pushed forward eagerly toward the dark warmth and the mingled scents of hay and manure.

Legolas nodded. Turning to the stable hand he took a small leather purse from his tunic and withdrew several coins. "We have had a long journey," he told the boy, dropping the gold into his grimy hand. "And this horse is a favorite of King Elessar's. Rub him down thoroughly before feeding. You shall give him a bran mash tonight and cover him well. He must be ready to ride tomorrow, if the King requires it."

The Elf's quick, decisive tone left little room for argument. "Aye, my lord," the lad muttered, bobbing his head as he pocketed the gold. Legolas paused at the threshold, glancing back into the stable's musty warmth. "There is no need to tie him," he added. "A loose box will suit him best, and I think you would have difficulty if you attempted anything other."

The boy glanced at Arod, who was now standing by the watering trough, swishing his tail impatiently. Several other horses had lifted their heads at the Elf's voice, and they turned toward him as far as their lead ropes allowed. "Aye," he grunted again, and Legolas stepped back into the rain-washed night, allowing the door to close behind him.

Gimli was waiting for him in the stable-yard, stamping his feet to keep warm. He had his hood raised and his shoulders hunched against the driving rain, but he glanced up as the Elf joined him. "You really think that Aragorn will ride tomorrow?"

Legolas shrugged and led the way through the gate into the seventh circle. "I do not know," he said. "His message did not say. It seemed urgent and yet . . ." he paused, looking over the city wall into the distance. They were near the summit, and the city stretched in concentric rings far below them. Gimli could see the flicker of lamplight dotting the houses below, but beyond that the Pelennor fields stretched empty and black. He could see nothing to capture the Elf's interest. "No," Legolas finished at last, just as Gimli's teeth began to chatter. "No, we will not ride tomorrow. Whatever Aragorn plans, he is not yet ready to begin."

Gimli waited a moment longer, but when nothing more seemed forthcoming he gave it up. The freezing rain was closer to sleet now, and Gimli's hair and beard were soaked. Even his Elven cloak was sodden with mud and seemed on the verge of giving up the fight against the elements. He wanted a hot bath, a change of clothes, some ale and his pipe, in that order. Some proper food wouldn't be amiss either. Legolas tended to travel light, and often forgot about eating all together when he was in a hurry.

Pulling his hood a bit tighter around his ears, Gimli set off again toward the King's gate. Legolas fell in alongside him, his hands swinging loosely at his sides. Gimli was not sure, because it was hard to tell over the howling of the wind, but he thought the Elf might be humming under his breath.

_Every other creature in Middle-earth has the sense to seek shelter from the storm, _Gimli thought._ The Elf wants to sing to it._ And – yes, Legolas was now casting occasional sidelong glances toward Gimli, his eyes bright with mischief. _He's feeling playful. Mahal preserve me._

This was confirmed when Legolas spoke a moment later, as they rounded the second curve of the passage and were struck by a fresh onslaught of stinging ice. "Then when we crossed the bridge at Osgiliath, Gimli, and you were crying '_noro lim,' 'noro lim'_…"

Gimli crossed his arms over his chest, prepared to get it over with. "I was trying to tell you to stop, you crazy Elf. Didn't you see the guardsmen shouting?"

"They were urging us on."

"Urging us on? By shouting 'no, no, stop, there's no road there'?"

"Men are frequently unintelligible when excited. One must give greater importance to their actions than to their words."

"Their actions were that they were diving for cover."

"They were jumping with enthusiasm, friend Gimli. Besides, you enjoyed it."

"Me?" Gimli swelled indignantly. "When have I ever encouraged your reckless behavior?"

"When we jumped the hedge and you yelled –"

"Your quiver had just bashed me across the nose! _Must_ you wear that thing when we ride?"

Legolas gave him an apologetic look, but his eyes shone and he could not quite smother a grin as he looked ahead again. Gimli sighed. The Elf was hopeless, really. But he looked so disingenuous (a practiced deception, Gimli was certain) that the Dwarf could not help smiling in return.

They were nearly at the guard's post to the courtyard. Gimli's hands were so cold now that he could hardly feel them, and he tucked them under his arms, shivering. Legolas' hair was coated in a thin sheen of ice, but he seemed not to have noticed. He did pull his hood up to cover his head as they approached the circle of lamplight before the gate, but Gimli strongly suspected that this had nothing to do with the weather. The Men of Gondor had little contact with the other races of Middle-earth, and tended to view them, particularly Elves, with some trepidation. Their experience with Pippin had done much to change that, and indeed Gimli and the Hobbits had enjoyed a warm welcome after the War when the fame of the Nine Walkers had spread through the city. But Legolas tended to be more reserved by nature, and more cautious around groups of Men he did not know.

Gimli was now too cold and too tired to care what the guards thought, however. He strode toward the gate, hardly slowing as the pair of Men moved to block him, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. "Hold!" the larger of them called, peering at him through the driving sleet. "Who seeks entrance to the King's Court?"

"Gimli son of Glóin of the Nine Walkers, Companion to the Ring-bearer, Frodo of Nine Fingers; Orc-bane and Hunter of 45 Leagues with your King, Elessar once called Strider; Elf-friend and Lock-bearer, servant of the Lady of the Golden Wood and Lord of the Glittering Caves," Gimli said, scarcely pausing to draw breath. "And his friend, Legolas Thranduilion of many titles, all of which he can tell you while I get some ale by the fire."

"We are friends of King Elessar," Legolas said calmly behind him. "Here at the King's request. I believe he is expecting us."

The guards exchanged a look. "Lord Legolas," the first one said. His stubbly cheeks were red with cold. "I am to escort you to the Royal Chambers. His Majesty gave orders that you attend him there."

"Thank you," Legolas said. "There is no need for escort. I know the way."

He started to move past them, but the guards were well trained and they stood their ground. "I'm sorry, my lord," the first one said. "By order of the King, I go with you."

Legolas stopped, surveying them coolly. There was no trace of his earlier mischievousness now. The guards fidgeted a little under his gaze. "And we'll have to get orders about Lord Gimli, there," the second one added abruptly, when the silence had stretched uncomfortably long. "We haven't had no instructions about him."

"No?" Legolas said softly. "Then I will tell you your instructions. Lord Gimli is a friend of your King. He is here at my request. I am here at your King's request. You will let us pass, and you will remain here while we go to the King's chambers, as he wishes. You will do this now."

The Elf made no move toward any of his weapons, nor did he so much as raise his voice, but there was an indefinable aura of danger around him as he stood, straight and still, staring at the guards. Gimli well knew the effect that intense Elven gaze could have on a mortal, and there was a thread of steel in Legolas' tone that even he might have hesitated to cross; though he'd shave his beard to stubble ere he admitted that to the Elf. As it was, the guards were no match for Thranduil's son in this mood. They shivered, looking at each other, and then back at the Elf who stood watching them, apparently impervious to the icy wind that blew back his cloak and whipped his hair away from his face.

"Friends, eh?" the second guard muttered sullenly, shifting his eyes away from Legolas'. He was of average height, thin with a hooked nose from which a drop of clear moisture hung. "You can't be knowing the King too well, if you think that were a request."

Legolas said nothing, but continued to stare at them. Long moments passed in silence, broken only by the whistle of the wind. Finally it was too much for the Men. "You'll have to leave your weapons here," the first guard said at last, defeat heavy in his voice. "No one may be armed in the presence of the King."

"No?" Legolas said, already moving past them and into the courtyard. "I recall that Théoden King of Rohan had a similar custom. You may ask King Elessar what good it did him."

And he was gone, sweeping up the courtyard toward the palace entrance. Gimli hurried after him, almost hoping that the guards would try to stop them. He could do with some action after their long journey. But the Men proved to be dishearteningly cowed, making no move to seize them, and the guards at the entrance hall scarcely had a chance to open their mouths before Legolas was past them and through the massive doors.

Once inside the citadel, however, with the doors sealed behind them and the wind muted by thick walls, it seemed to Gimli that the air of danger faded, cloaked again by Legolas' habitual reserve. The Elf offered no resistance to the guards that came forward in the main hall, but handed over his bow and quiver with a disappointing placidity.

At Gimli's questioning glance his lips quirked and he murmured, too softly for the guard to hear, "It is not so unusual to request that the King's guests go to him unarmed. Or, that they do so without weapons obviously in attendance, at least."

Gimli snorted as he watched his axes being laid carefully alongside Legolas' long knives in the armory cabinet. "Then why did you not turn your weapons over to the guard outside? My feet are nearly frozen off, thanks to you."

Legolas ran a hand carelessly through his hair, dislodging the melting ice from it. "There is custom, and then there is foolishness, Master Dwarf. The bow of Galadriel does not wait in a guardsman's shack in the rain; however it may please the Man to order it."

Their weapons safely stored, they were turning away when the lieutenant made as if to stop them. He may have had some idea of searching them, but by this point Gimli had lost patience. He was cold, and wet, and unless these popinjay guards came bearing ale and hot food he wanted nothing more to do with them. He glowered at the Man, daring him to take one step closer, and rumbled low in his chest. The lieutenant stopped as if struck with a poleaxe.

"My lords," he squeaked, "the King desires you await him in his chambers. There…" he gestured feebly toward the marble stair at their left. Legolas nodded coolly. "Thank you," he said, "we know the way." And they swept past the guards before there could be any suggestion of escort.

Gimli stamped his feet, trying to dislodge the mud from his boots as he fell in alongside Legolas. Grand as these palaces of Men were, a bootjack at the entrance would do wonders to improve them, he thought. The two footmen at the base of the stair stood at attention with eyes straight ahead, apparently oblivious to their approach. Legolas, however, surveyed them with narrowed eyes as they passed. "Does it seem to you, elvellon," he murmured, "that there are more guards about than usual?"

Gimli shrugged. His leggings were soaked through and beginning to chafe as he climbed the stairs, and he was in no mood to discuss details of Aragorn's household with the Elf. "No."

"Six at the city gate, two at the courtyard entrance, two at the citadel doors, three in the hall, two at the stairs…"

"There are always a lot of guards in Minas Tirith. It's one of the main occupations of the city."

"In peacetime, Gimli?"

"What else are they going to do? Not going to go in for horticulture, in the city of stone, now are they?"

"And two at the first landing," Legolas said as they came up onto the second level. Gimli glanced around. Sure enough, two more guards were hurrying toward them, black and silver tunics glittering. "Lord Gimli," one began. Gimli opened his mouth, ready to tell this one exactly what he could do with his orders, when the guard said, "Éomer King of Rohan wishes to speak with you."

Whatever Gimli had been expecting, it wasn't that. He blinked and glanced over at Legolas. The Elf was staring at the guard, a faint line drawn between his brows. "Éomer is here?" he asked.

The Man bowed. "Yes, my lord. He requests that Lord Gimli join him for ale in his quarters."

Now this was more like it. "Right," Gimli said briskly. "Off you go, then." He started to follow the guard down the corridor, but Legolas caught his arm.

"Did Aragorn send word to you that Éomer King would be here, Gimli?"

Gimli glanced back at him. "No. He said nothing to me of aught, I told you that."

"No," Legolas said. He was frowning more deeply than before. "And yet Aglarond is far closer to Rohan than to Ithilien, and you might have journeyed together, and saved cost of men and armament . . ."

Gimli hesitated. A faint unease at these words was penetrating his physical discomfort, and he had learned to trust the Elf's counsel beyond even his own instincts. He lowered his voice, mindful of the guards nearby, and whispered, "Do you think it is a trap?"

Legolas paused for a long moment, his head bowed and his eyes closed as if listening. Finally he gave a slight shake of his head. "No," he breathed, so softly that Gimli could scarcely hear him. "But something is not right here, elvellon. I feel…" he broke off, looking up the steps that led to the King's chambers. Gimli followed his gaze, but there was nothing there save the inevitable sentries at the base of the stair.

When Legolas again turned toward him his gaze was troubled. "Be on your guard, Master Dwarf," he said. "There is much here that I do not yet understand."

_What an Elf can understand_ . . . the taunt was half-formed in the back of Gimli's mind, but he cut it off. Legolas was clearly in no mood for teasing now. Instead he said quietly, "We're in Aragorn's keep, Legolas."

The Elf made no answer, but glanced again at the stair leading to the King's chambers. They stood for a long moment thus, and Gimli was aware of the growing impatience of the soldiers behind him. Still Legolas seemed disinclined to explain further, and Gimli had learned that there was little point in pressing an Elf for answers once he had decided to be cryptic. So with an exasperated huff and a hitch at his sodden leggings he said aloud, "A Dwarf is always on his guard, Master Elf. Look to your own protection and let me handle mine."

Yet he caught Legolas' eye as he turned away, and they shared a look of understanding. Axes and bow might have been taken by the guards, but Gimli had no intention of ever yielding the knife he kept behind his belt, and he knew that Legolas yet had the blades concealed beneath his vambraces, and the dagger in his boot. It was common courtesy not to walk the King's halls with weapons in hand, but neither Elf nor Dwarf had ever felt the need to actually disarm entirely – nor, Gimli had assumed, would Aragorn expect it of them. But now, as he left the Elf and followed the guard down the wide hall toward the guest chambers, he wondered. What could Legolas possibly fear here, in the home of his closest friend?

* * *

1 Khuzdul: The Dwarven language.


	3. Arwen

"All these women, their tears could make oceans."

- Bob Dylan, Tarantula

Chapter 2: Arwen

The servants of Minas Tirith were efficient. Scarcely had the King left the Royal Chambers than the sitting room was filled with them, bearing hot water and linen for washing, spiced wine and sweetmeats, additional braziers to fight the chill near the window, even a long woolen robe that was hung on a rack by the fire to warm.

_All the comforts of home_, Arwen thought. _Except that it isn't._ Would Legolas suspect? Every other time he had visited the palace, he had refreshed himself in his own rooms in the guest chambers before coming to the Royal Chambers. But now . . . _It does not matter. Whether he suspects or not, he will come._ The servants had had their instructions regarding that as well, and they were very efficient.

They had finished with the sitting room now, arranging the trays of pastries and fruits on the oaken table and drawing the chairs closer to the fire. All this was accomplished swiftly under the steely gaze of the First Lady of the Privy Chamber, a massive woman who had managed Lord Denethor's household for thirty years and who seemed likely to manage King Elessar's for thirty more. She was the last to leave, surveying the arrangements like a captain inspecting his troops before she finally bowed ponderously to the Queen and exited to the antechamber, closing the door behind her.

Alone again, Arwen took a deep breath and pushed her hands up into her hair, lifting the mass of it off her neck for a moment. She released it with a sigh, her hands falling limply to her sides. He would come. He was delayed, of course, by the weather, and the guards, but he would come.

_The Dwarf is with him._ But Arwen could not take much hope in that. Éomer would have separated them by now, and doubtless they would not suspect anything, for he and Gimli had formed a lasting friendship after the War. She wondered idly if Elessar had considered that when he had instructed Éomer to entertain the Dwarf. Perhaps he had. Or perhaps he had thought only of Aglarond as a vassal of Rohan, and his own authority over both.

Éomer, at least, had not suspected. She knew that as well as if she had seen his reaction to Aragorn's message herself. He would see only the chance to drink and make merry with his old friend before the Council met on the morrow. And of course Aragorn had phrased it thus, casually, as a favour between friends. She wondered if he counted himself magnanimous for that.

It mattered little in the end: whether phrased as order or as request, his wishes were obeyed. Legolas would come alone.

But would he come in time? _If he does not, if Elessar returns before I can speak to him alone . . ._ She would not think of that. The King had retired to the tower, she knew that as well, and so often he lost track of time there . . . _an image. Aragorn, laughing, his grey eyes shining as he bowed over her hand. "Forgive me, my lady, the time slipped away from me," and then drawing her close, his heat, his scent filling her so that all recriminations were forgotten as his lips touched hers…_

She paused by the carved table, absently selecting a small orange from the laden trays. A luxury, that: fruit from the last of the winter's stores, riches undreamed of in the first cold weeks of spring. She turned the orange over in her fingers, feeling the slight texture of its skin. This too was deliberate, she knew, a calculated display of the King's wealth and hospitality to his friend. Calculated, deliberate, cunningly planned as all of Elessar's actions now were . . . but to what end?

_What is he planning?_ She could not read him, if indeed she ever had. But all of this: the Council gathering, bringing the lords of Rohan and Ithilien and Dol Amroth to Gondor, the secret messages and gradual strengthening of Gondor's armies . . . she did not attend the King's Privy Council, and she could not read him. But neither was she blind.

And Legolas . . . he had summoned Legolas to come alone.

The heavy door creaked open behind her. Arwen started, dropping the fruit back onto its tray. But the maid who entered appeared not to notice.

"My lady, Lord Legolas of Ithilien –"

"Yes!" Arwen cried, as her heart gave a great leap in her chest. "I mean," she drew herself up, straightening her back and smoothing her hair from her face, "thank you, Kaimil. Please show him in."

He came with a rush of cold air that emanated from his frozen clothes, the mud dripping from his sodden cloak even as the servants flitted about him, their protests and efforts with clothes brush and boot scraper utterly ignored. This in itself was unusual, Arwen realized. She had known the youngest Prince of Mirkwood nearly all his life. She had been a guest at his naming ceremony and she knew well the courtly manners that had been inculcated in him, extending and augmenting his natural courtesy as the endless weapons training and tutors had honed his body and mind. Even her father acknowledged that Thranduil had raised his sons well. Under normal circumstances Legolas would no more ignore a servant than he would snub the Lady Galadriel.

These were not normal circumstances.

Legolas' sharp gaze swept over the room, taking in the candles that dripped wax down their wrought iron holders, the glow of the fire upon the upright chairs, the heavy tapestries that covered the blank stone walls. _He is looking for something,_ Arwen thought, as she watched his eyes pierce every shadow and dark corner of the chamber. _No – for **someone**. And he has ridden hard to come to his side . . ._ again she sent a silent prayer, a wish to any that might listen, that it was not too late.

But the one he sought was not there. Legolas seemed to absorb this fact in the first fraction of a second, and she watched as the intensity of his eyes lessened, the tension in his frame eased with the realization that no imminent danger threatened. His gaze came then to rest on her, and his face lit with true pleasure.

"Queen Undómiel," Legolas said, and bowed with his hand over his heart. She inclined her head in return, biting her lip to keep the turmoil she felt from showing in her face. He was here. At long last he was here, and the waiting would soon be over. But Elbereth, she was so afraid.

Straightening, he raised his eyes to hers, and Arwen met his gaze with a directness that belied the frantic pounding of her heart. He would see the truth in her in any case, and she would not hide it now. But still there was a risk, and if he saw: if he spoke before she could warn him… Legolas froze for a long moment, looking into her eyes, and she gripped the carved wooden back of the chair so that her knuckles turned white. _He knows. Dear Valar, if he tells Elessar . . ._

His eyes widened, and then he smiled, like sunshine breaking through the winter clouds. "Arwen," he murmured, and stepped toward her. For an instant the dark weight seemed lifted, and a wave of pure happiness and relief swept over her as she returned his smile. But hard-learned caution stayed her, and rather than running to his embrace she stepped back, and gave a short, sharp shake of her head.

Legolas stopped, his hands still outstretched as the smile faded from his lips. She was sorry for that, was sorry for the confusion in his eyes, and the greater pain that was yet to come. But caution was greater still, and she glanced quickly at the servants and then back to him, hoping that he could understand.

And he did. With a grace born of centuries' experience with servants and their cares, Legolas shrugged out of his mud-caked traveling cloak and gave it into the hands of the chamberlain, who held it up with a look of mute despair. A few murmured words of thanks given in tones of polite dismissal, the shaking off of one excessively diligent lackey who was determinedly swiping a cloth over the Prince's boots, a courtly bow and a blinding smile that reduced the maids to blushing giggles, and then the room was clear.

The heavy doors clicked shut at Legolas' back, cutting off the murmured conversations as the servants retreated to the antechamber. He stood a moment with hands folded behind him, regarding Arwen in silence. His hair was wet with rain, trailing long tendrils down his tunic, and flecks of mud speckled his face and clothes. There was a dark smudge over one high cheekbone, but his eyes were bright and clear as they looked into hers.

For a long moment there was silence, save for the low hiss and crackle of the fire. Then Legolas spoke. "I beg your pardon, my lady. It was not my intent to come upon you like this. I had thought that King Elessar –"

She interrupted, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. "No pardon is needed, my lord. Elessar is . . ." by no stretch of the imagination could she say that Aragorn was well. She hesitated only a moment, and then finished, "is elsewhere. But he bid that you await him here."

Legolas gave a small nod, still studying her closely. He had made no move toward the washing bowl that steamed gently upon the table, though the mud was now drying upon his face and hair. That again was unusual – though he thought little of his own appearance, courtly protocol had been ingrained in Legolas from an early age. Never had Arwen seen him so bedraggled within doors, and most certainly not when he was expecting to see the King.

_He came swiftly, and with urgent need. He knows that something is wrong; he must sense it, even as I do._ Some distant part of her spared a moment's pity for the guards who must have tried to stop him. She hoped that their injuries were not too serious.

Legolas spoke again, drawing her from these thoughts. "They do not know?"

It took her a moment to understand what he meant. Her first thought was of Elessar – of course she could not tell _him._ But no. The servants. Legolas was speaking of the servants.

She shook her head.

Concern now clouded his eyes, his forehead creased in a faint frown. "Forgive me, my lady, but . . . the child . . ."

She took a breath. _The child._ "He is well."

Still he doubted; puzzlement writ upon the fine planes of his face. With an effort Arwen released the chair that she had clung to, and taking a step forward she caught one of his long white hands in her own. She could feel the callused pads of his fingers as she interlaced them with hers, and brought his hand to rest on the flat of her belly. "There," she whispered.

There was a pause as his lips parted in dawning wonder, and his eyes shone as he looked at her. "A son," he murmured. "Aragorn has a son."

"Yes," she said, and her voice broke on the word. She could not speak further, but released him, and turned away.

"My lady?" His hand touched her shoulder, questioning, but there was no demand in that touch. She closed her eyes, taking comfort in his support, the gentle strength that did not ask more than she could give. For so long she had been alone, surrounded by strangers in a city of stone. For so long she had been afraid . . . she knew that he felt her tremble.

"Arwen?" He was closer now, she could feel him warm against her back, but she did not open her eyes. She had to tell him, had to find the words to make him understand, there was so little time left . . . but she did not have the strength to look at him while she did it.

"How is it," she managed at last, "that things can be so wrong, Legolas, and yet seem so right?"

He circled to face her; she could hear the faint shift of his clothing, feel the fleeting brush of his hair against her shoulder, though his feet made no sound. "I do not understand."

"Or, not right," she continued, swiftly, before her courage could give way. "Never _right._ But . . . normal. So that, so that from one day to the next, one doesn't notice, the change is so slight, so gradual, and now I wonder, was it a change at all, or is this the way he's always been, and I didn't see –"

"_Arwen._" He did not touch her. He made no move toward her, but her eyes flew open in surprise at the edge in his voice, and she broke off in mid word. His eyes were hard, boring into her. "You speak of Aragorn?"

Slightly breathless, she nodded. Legolas swallowed. "Tell me," he said, and she knew the effort he made, the strength of control behind his seeming calm.

She took a deep breath, determined to match his composure. "Aragorn – Elessar – has been . . . he has changed, Legolas."

"How?"

She shook her head. "He is . . . different. Cold. He is planning something. There is darkness in him, and cruelty. He spends hours, locked in his tower –"

The strong line of Legolas' jaw tensed. "Cold," he murmured, as if seeking confirmation, or giving it. "Distant . . . and there is something else, some intention that I do not understand…" He trailed off, and looked at her for a long moment. Then, as though to convince himself as much as her, he said gently, "He is King, my lady. His duty to his people –"

"But he doesn't think about the people!" She stopped, gathering herself. "All of it, the guards, the strategies – they aren't for the _people_. They are for _him_. If you could only hear him, Legolas…"

He was silent, seeming to consider this, his gaze distant. "In truth that is why I am here," he said at last. "Even before I received Aragorn's summons, my heart was troubled, though I did not know why. I have not the bond with him that you share –"

She laughed; a harsh sound that tore her throat. "_Bond?_ Oh yes, the bond that ties me to a stranger in my husband's guise, the bond so close that he knows not of his son's existence!"

Legolas' eyes focused instantly upon her with piercing intensity. "_He does not know?_"

Arwen clenched her fists. She was shaking with mingled rage and shame – that she must now do this, that she must now speak of her failure aloud. The ruin of her hopes, the farce that her marriage had become, the pain and fear of so many nights spent alone, longing for his voice, his touch . . . and dreading it when it came. She gathered the hurts to her as bitter stones, and cast them heedlessly at the one who was supposed to understand.

"He is _mortal,_ Legolas! He does not bond as we do, or as I thought we did – I have never done this before, and I do not know! But once I thought – he could, perhaps, but now –"

"He can." Legolas spoke with certainty.

Arwen glared at him. "Then can you not feel it? Do you not know? You have been his friend longer than even I have known him, Legolas – do you pretend that he is unchanged?"

Legolas bowed his head. "No, my lady," he said gently. "I have not seen him in some months, and I cannot speak to your experience. But consider," he added, looking up, "that perhaps this change is necessary? Estel has always driven himself hard, and neither you nor I know the burdens he carries, to keep Gondor safe –"

Hot tears stung Arwen's eyes. "And your father, Legolas? Is Gondor's defense any greater a burden than Mirkwood's? But King Thranduil never acted thus, not even at the height of the Enemy's power. And now Gondor is at peace!"

Legolas sighed. "What would you have me do, my lady? Shall I go to the King and tell him that he is at fault for not bearing the responsibility for his nation with the same grace as the Elvenking – yea, even though he has but four years experience to my father's millennia? Shall I censure him because he has grown stern under the weight of his duty, even as your father did, and mine?"

The tears were perilously close to falling now, and Arwen swiped her hands furiously across her eyes to force them back. "You have not lived with him!" she said. "The things he says, his voice, his eyes, his touch –" her voice shook, but she kept on. "Aragorn is _gone_, Legolas. Even in Ithilien you felt it, and I tell you now that I know it in every fiber of my being. He is gone, and I cannot bring him back."

It was as if she had struck him across the face. His eyes darkened and his lips thinned as he looked away. The firelight played over his features, shading the contours of cheek and jaw and limning his pale skin and hair in gold. When at last he spoke his voice was steady, and he asked the same question as before. "What would you have me do?"

"Talk to him," Arwen said. "Be with him, Legolas. If there is some part of him, some spark that you can reach . . ."

He turned back toward her, and his face was drawn as though in pain. "Can you put such faith in me, my lady? It is you Aragorn loves. He has pledged himself to you, even as you did to him, and his _faer1_is bound up in yours. Even now you carry his child. If you cannot reach him –"

Arwen shook her head. She had thought of all this, had considered it and turned it endlessly in her mind during the bitter nights, but in the end there was no choice. Legolas had to try. He was her last hope.

"He asked for you," she said. "I mean that he ordered you to come – he does not ask anymore. I know not what he plans, nor why he desires so to speak to you alone, but he needs you. You are his closest friend, and he loved you long ere he pledged aught to me. I think that perhaps some part of him yet remembers that, and he seeks your aid. How else would you have felt his need so strongly?"

Legolas was still for a long moment, and then he drew a slow breath. "Very well," he murmured, so soft that she could scarcely hear it. "I will try." He smiled then, an ironic twisting of his lips. "Do you imagine that I could do otherwise? But –" he swallowed hard, "I would not give false hope, my lady. We do not know what has caused this change, nor if it can be undone. Elessar is not Estel as we knew him, nor can he be. The people require their King, and we cannot deny them that."

_And what if he is not changed at all; and this is truth, and all before was the lie?_ The black fear welled up in her again, and this time it could not be denied. Arwen pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling the sobs to faint, whistling gasps. Legolas drew her into his arms and she buried her face in his neck as the tears fell at last. She shuddered as they tore through her, and she breathed in the cold, clean scent of him, a mixture of wind and rain and hair like summer straw, together with the damp wool and leather of his tunic. His strong arms held her, his hands stroking her hair and back as he soothed her with voice and touch.

She could feel his strength, constant as he held her, and slowly her trembling eased. Her face was wet with tears and rainwater from his hair, but his long fingers brushed the moisture from her skin.

"Hush," Legolas murmured, and there was a gentle lilt to his voice. He was humming low in his throat, an ancient Silvan lullaby rich with the sounds of forest and creek, the whisper of leaves and the trickle of water through soft loam. "Hush." He kissed her, on her forehead and on her lips, and when she looked into his eyes she saw them shining.

They stood in long embrace, drawing strength from the sharing of grief and fear, love and friendship, as the Eldar had done through all the ages since the first Awakening. The fire and braziers surrounded them in gentle warmth, and the rain hissed softly against the glass outside. Arwen could feel her heart slow, her breathing and the very rhythm of her _faer_ coming into harmony with Legolas'. It seemed so long, so long since she had been thus with another Elf, though in truth Legolas and his people of Ithilien had visited Minas Tirith only last Midsummer's Eve. Was it then that she had first seen the change in Aragorn? Or had she sensed it before? She could not remember.

She was drifting, warm and safe in his arms, relaxed and comforted as she had not been for time uncounted. Legolas held her close, the song a mere vibration in his throat, a near soundless harmony that she nevertheless felt in the depths of her being. His hands still stroked her back, and his wet hair twined with hers: white gold and ebony mingled in the firelight.

It was then that the door to the sitting room swung open, and Elessar found them.

* * *

1 _faer_: Sindarin form of _fëa_, soul.


	4. Bonds May Break

"My lord is not my lord; nor should I know him,

were he in favor as in humor altered."

– William Shakespeare, _Othello_

Chapter 3: Bonds May Break

Arwen stiffened at once, pulling from the embrace, but Legolas did not move. He knew that Aragorn was there – he heard the door open, felt the draft of cool air at his back, heard the sharp intake of his friend's breath. But the bulk of his attention was given to the lady in his arms as he sought to comfort her. And even when Arwen broke away he continued to hum softly, keeping the tone of his _faer_ in resonance with hers, seeking to give assurance despite the discord of her fear.

So it was that Legolas failed to realize the danger of that moment. Despite Arwen's warning and the disquiet of his own heart, he yet believed that Estel was not truly lost to them. He thought that there would be time, after Arwen's tears had dried, to greet his old friend, to make right whatever had gone so wrong. He thought that Aragorn would understand.

He was wrong.

With a strangled oath the King crossed to them in two strides. He seized the shoulder of Legolas' tunic and yanked him back. Caught completely by surprise, Legolas was jerked nearly off his feet. His thin boots skidded on the stone flags and he leaped up, instinctively twisting in mid-air to keep his balance. He broke Aragorn's grip and landed in a defensive crouch, his throwing blades drawn and ready in his hands.

Aragorn stumbled at the sudden movement, but swiftly regaining his balance he stood with feet planted and his long knife trained unwaveringly upon Legolas. They faced each other, unmoving, frozen by the flash of lamplight upon steel. Time and trust suspended upon the blades between them, and the silence was broken only by Arwen's high, swift breathing and the frightened whispers of the servants at the door.

Then Aragorn spoke. "Do you draw weapons against your King, Legolas?" His voice was dangerously soft, his grey eyes clear and hard.

Legolas looked up the length of Aragorn's blade to meet his gaze, his own short knives poised defensively before him. "I have never had need to, my lord," he answered. "The Elvenking is not in the habit of attacking his warriors from behind."

The King's hand tightened upon his knife hilt. "Then, Lord of Ithilien, do you draw weapons against _me_, your liege lord and protector?"

"No," Legolas said. "No more so than I would draw blade against my friend." Slowly he rose from his crouch. The tip of Aragorn's knife lifted with him, in line with the base of his throat, but Aragorn made no other move. His weight was set back on his heels, and his arm was fully extended and locked. Satisfied that he could react before the Man could attack again, Legolas slipped his blades back into the holders concealed beneath his vambraces and calmly faced him, his hands at his sides.

Aragorn held his stance a moment longer, and then returned his knife to the sheath at his hip. "Your friend," he said. There was an ironic lilt to his voice that Legolas did not understand. "Tell me, _friend,_ how long were you with my wife before I entered? What honor remains to the Queen of Gondor?"

Arwen moved then, her skirts flying behind her as she crossed to the chamber door in swift, determined strides. "Out," she ordered the servants who crowded wide-eyed in the entrance. "Get to the scullery, and prepare hot water for the bath in Lord Legolas' chambers." They hesitated, and Arwen's lips thinned. "_Now._"

In a flurry of muslin and muttered acknowledgements they went, and Arwen shut the door in their wake. Legolas could see the trembling of her hands, but she held her head high and her back was straight as she faced her husband. "The Queen's honor is inviolate, my lord. You interrupted nothing."

Aragorn shot her a dark look. "Do you imagine me a fool, my lady? Will you then deny the evidence of my own eyes?"

Legolas looked from one to the other in confusion. He could sense Arwen's fear through the lingering resonance of the connection that they had shared, and Aragorn's rage was clear to see in every line of his body. But he could see no reason for it. "Elessar," he said uncertainly. "I was told that you wished to see me in your chambers. Therefore I waited for you here."

The King glared at him. "With the door closed, Legolas? Without even a maid as chaperone?"

Understanding dawned like sunrise through the haze, and Legolas nearly laughed aloud. "Arwen is bonded, Aragorn." There was a pause. "To _you_," he added when the silence had stretched too long.

"An astute observation," Aragorn said dryly. "And to think, Legolas, you had only the clue of having witnessed the wedding to assist you."

"My lord," Arwen began, but Legolas was faster. "The _wedding?_" he repeated. "Nay, Aragorn. All the speeches and all the ceremonies of all the noblemen in Gondor could not change that which lies between you and the lady Undómiel – that which you pledged upon Cerin Amroth. Merely to look at you . . . there is not an Elf in Ennor1 who would not know it!"

A dark flush suffused Aragorn's face. Whirling suddenly upon Arwen, he snapped, "Leave us, my lady."

The Queen was very pale, but she lifted her chin and did not move. "My lord," she began again, but Aragorn caught her arm in a bruising grip.

"I _said,_" he propelled her to the door in swift, jerking steps, "_leave us._" Legolas sprang forward, but Aragorn was already at the entranceway. His voice was a snarl of muted fury as he pulled the heavy door open and pushed her through. "_Go._"

He had scarcely slammed the door behind her when Legolas grabbed his arm, pulling him around to face him. "_What are you doing?_"

He held Aragorn fast, staring at him in shock. His fingers sank into the rich material of the King's doublet, and he felt the fine-wired tension that ran through him. He searched the Man's face for some sign, some reason that he could understand: why his friend had done this. But there was nothing. And so Legolas said, hearing his own voice lowered with deadly purpose, "You will not touch the Evenstar thus, Elessar."

Aragorn jerked his arm free, breathing hard, and there was a black glitter in his eyes to match the intensity of Legolas' stare. "And you will not lay hands upon the King, Elf. Nor will you command him in his own house."

Legolas stepped back in disbelief. This was wrong. Everything that had happened since he first received Aragorn's summons – the demand that he come without escort, the guards, Arwen's warning – had served to intensify his own sense of foreboding. And now he looked into Aragorn's eyes and he could not pierce their depths.

Aragorn would never speak to him like this. But he did. Aragorn would die before he suffered hurt to Arwen. But he had. _You have not lived with him_, the Queen had said. But Legolas had journeyed with this Man for months on end, had saved his life and been saved in return countless times, had fought both with him and beside him, had bickered and teased and loved him for over seventy years, and the bond of Elven friendship ran deeper than blood.

He had seen Elessar just last summer, and the King had not been like this then. He knew it. Aragorn had been strained; with weariness that was plain to Legolas' eyes, though the Man had tried to hide it. At the time he had let it pass unmentioned, assuming it to be the newfound burden of kingship that weighed upon his friend.

But now the lines that had been mere traces eight months ago were cut deep about the King's mouth and eyes, and dark shadows hollowed his cheeks. Something was grievously wrong, and Legolas felt it as a brooding shadow cast between them. And so he stared into eyes gone cold and dark as winter rain, and tried again to reach his friend.

"I command nothing, my lord," he said. "Nor have I ever done so. But I tell you now: none shall lay hands upon the Lady Arwen. Not while I draw breath."

Aragorn's mouth tightened in a bitter grimace. "Do not presume to lecture me, Legolas. I know how to protect my wife."

"Indeed?" Legolas asked coolly. The shock was fading, and in the wake of disbelief his own anger hummed dangerously close to the surface. "And how many bruises does she now bear as witness to your protection?"

Aragorn's hand flew to the knife-hilt at his side, but he did not draw it. "You _dare!_" he said. "You _dare_ suggest that I – that Arwen – Valar, Legolas! _I love her!_"

The honest horror in his voice struck Legolas to the core, and in that moment he felt the shadow lift. He reacted instantly, casting aside every consideration for mortal comfort and focusing all his Elven concentration upon his friend. He stared with piercing intensity into the King's eyes, and he saw Estel looking back at him.

Then Aragorn broke away. He stumbled to the window and leaned a moment upon the lintel, his ragged fingernails digging between the stones as he closed his eyes. Legolas hesitated, watching in the dim reflection as Aragorn's brow furrowed, his jaw clenched as though in pain.

But when at last the King spoke his voice was as hard and cold as the mirrored glass. "You will not see the lady Undómiel again, Legolas."

Legolas gritted his teeth. _So close! _He could have taken Aragorn by the neck and shaken him, but instead he drew a deep breath and counted to six. In Quenyan.

"Aragorn. Arwen is _bonded _to you. No Elf could look upon her without seeing it. No Elf could touch her without feeling it." He searched Aragorn's reflection for some sign of understanding, but the King's face was set and expressionless, distorted by the uneven glass. "Elbereth, Aragorn!" he cried at last. "You were _raised_ in Rivendell! Can you not know what that _means?_"

Finally Aragorn turned to face him. "But we are not in Rivendell, Legolas," he said softly. "And there are no Elves here. You are in a country of Men, and you will obey the laws of Men."

Twelve this time. But though the King's voice was cold to match the haughtiness of his words, it was still Aragorn's voice. And though the King's eyes were wintry as river ice, they were still Aragorn's eyes. And so Legolas bit back the flaring of his pride, and spoke as calmly as he could. "That is true, Your Majesty. And I have come here at your summons, to aid you if I am able. So tell me if you will, why am I here? What would you ask of me?"

Something dark flickered in Aragorn's eyes. He lifted his chin slightly, and a smile played at the corners of his lips. "What would you give, Legolas?"

Legolas frowned. His patience for this game was wearing very thin. "I do not understand."

"No?" Aragorn walked toward him with measured steps, his boot heels clicking a tattoo upon the flags. "I summoned you, Legolas, because I require the aid of a friend. I need someone I can trust implicitly, someone whose loyalty is beyond question."

"I will aid you in any way I can, Aragorn. You know that."

"Do I?" The King was close to him now, so that Legolas could smell the tang of pipeweed on his clothes. "I thought I did, once."

"We have been through this, Aragorn!" Legolas snapped. "I have told you twice now, and Arwen has told you –" he broke off. Aragorn was studying him avidly, his eyes flicking back and forth and his lips slightly parted. But the fury was gone from his voice, and his accusation lacked heat. Instead he was intent, questioning . . . testing?

"This is not about Arwen," Legolas said slowly, searching his friend's eyes. "Not anymore. You know Elven custom too well for that, Aragorn. What do you truly seek?"

The Man smiled suddenly, carelessly, and turned away. With studied casualness he walked to the table, examining the cold meats laid upon it. "You've always been perceptive, Legolas," he said, not looking up. "But you're not quite to your usual standard today. Of course this is about Arwen." He picked up a thin slice of lamb, turning it in his fingers. "It has _always _been about Arwen."

He met the Elf's gaze then, and the heavy shadows beneath his eyes were cast in stark relief. "Gondor is in danger, Legolas. _Arwen _is in danger. The greatest power of the Fourth Age is growing, and it is coming here. Already spies have infiltrated Minas Tirith. It is only a matter of time before they penetrate here, into the citadel itself."

Legolas hesitated. Aragorn had never been one to leap to rash conclusions. He would not say such a thing unless it were true. But the Aragorn he knew would never hurt Arwen, either.

"What proof have you that –"

Aragorn dropped the meat back onto its plate. "You doubt me?"

Legolas shook his head. "No, my lord. But I have seen nothing of this power of which you speak. The enemies of Gondor were destroyed in the War. There are none left to oppose you."

"Not all," Aragorn said. "Not all were destroyed. Not completely." He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound so unlike his usual low chuckle that Legolas stared at him in shock. "I offered them clemency, and see how they have repaid me! I showed them mercy, and they conspire against me!"

He stilled then, and his voice grew deadly soft. "Their power is great, Legolas. There is no knowing how far their network of spies extends, nor who has been swayed to their service. I have called all of Gondor's allies to the Council, Ithilien and Dol Amroth and Roha n, to join forces against this threat. None knew the other was coming, so that the enemy could not anticipate us. But even that may not be enough. If they have reached Éomer or Imrahil or even Faramir… one of those at the Council tomorrow will betray us."

Legolas' head was beginning to ache. The conviction in Aragorn's voice could not be denied, and neither could his long years of experience in deducing the schemes of the Enemy before the War. But to suspect treachery in the lords who had aided Gondor all their lives . . . it was madness. And if he doubted even Faramir . . .

"Then what of me?"

The King walked toward him, slowly circling behind him as Legolas held himself still. "That depends, my lord Elf." He came to face him, and stopped. "With your abilities, you can find them before they hurt us. You can watch those at the Council tomorrow, and you will know when they are true, and when they are false. But where does your loyalty lie?"

Legolas met his eyes. "With you, my lord, as always. You know that."

"Do I?" Aragorn sighed. He passed a hand over his face, rubbing at the stubble, and his shoulders slumped. "I want to believe it, Legolas. I need you. _Gondor_ needs you. I… I cannot do this alone."

The icy mask of arrogance had slipped away, and suddenly he seemed fragile, vulnerable as Legolas had rarely known him. It hurt to see him thus, this Man who had always tried so hard to be strong, who would conceal his own doubts and fears from all, but had never been able to fool Legolas. He stepped forward and grasped the King's shoulder. "I am here, Aragorn," he said. "I will always be here. You can trust me."

Aragorn lifted his head then, and his eyes were blank, pitiless and shining as silver coins. "Can I, Legolas?" He smiled. "Prove it."

* * *

1 Ennor: The Sindarin name for Middle-earth.


	5. Night Thoughts

**A/N:** Power comes in all sorts of forms: physical, political, emotional, and sexual. I won't say that this chapter deserves a warning, exactly, but it does scratch the surface of some disturbing themes, and sexual power of one person over another is one of those themes. Read with caution.

l

"Tall ships and tall kings,

Three times three,

What brought they from the foundered land

Over the flowing sea?

Seven stars and seven stones,

And one white tree."

– J.R.R. Tolkien

Chapter 4: Night Thoughts

The storm had passed. Toward midnight the sleet gave way to simple rain that drummed upon the roof and shuttered windows of the citadel. But soon that too faded, and the cloud cover was lifted, broken and scattered by a freshening breeze from the West.

The breeze smelled like the sea.

Seated upon his balcony railing, Legolas tipped his head back, breathing deeply of that wild scent, the distant tang of salt and spray. For a moment it filled him, joy and desire rising as with Ithil's1 tide, and almost he could hear the crash of waves upon the distant shore. But that illusion was well known to him now, and with practiced effort he wrenched his mind away, schooling his thoughts with the discipline developed by long years under the Shadow in Mirkwood.

He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, in and out and in, feeling the lift and fall of his lungs, the seeping cold of the stone railing beneath him: physical reminders of _this _world, _this _land that housed the ones he loved, the ones for whom he had sworn to stay. And slowly the longing faded back into the old ache. It was again the dull pain he had learned to live with in the years since that first fateful cry of the gull at Pelargir.

With his mind his own again, Legolas opened his eyes. He would never be free of the sea-longing, he knew that, but with a warrior's discipline he could at least control it, and conceal it from all save those who knew him best: his father, and Gimli, and Aragorn. He sighed. In truth it was not much of a defense at all. But it was all he had. And so he clung to that discipline, and tried to focus. Aragorn needed him.

Beyond the courtyard wall Minas Tirith stretched in shadowed circles, dark pillars and dim hulks of stone pierced here and there by the flicker of lamplight. The cobbled streets were empty, but guards paced a perimeter about the citadel, and the tramp of their boots came distantly to the Elf's ears. High above him tattered clouds raced fleeting shadows across the moon, and the stars shone clear and bright. Legolas perched with arms around his knees and watched the sky, and thought.

_Gondor is in danger._ How? Sauron was gone. His fortress was in ruins, his Nazgûl vanquished, his Orcs scattered and leaderless. The Men who had fought for him, Easterlings, Southrons and Corsairs, had been driven back to their homelands. Gondor had retaken Umbar, and the Haradrim were so fractionated that they might have verged on civil war, had not their armies been destroyed. They could not possibly pose a threat to Gondor. Could they?

_I showed them mercy . . ._ and indeed Aragorn had. In the aftermath of battle, when the Houses of Healing had been filled with the stench of blood and sickness, and the dead had been stacked three deep in the city streets, and the grieving families had cried for vengeance, Aragorn had stood firm. All those who had been enslaved to the Enemy were granted freedom to return to their homelands provided that they swore an oath of peace with Gondor.

That act of mercy had been Aragorn's first proclamation as King. It had been that which had convinced Lord Elrond that his foster son had at last fulfilled his destiny, and merited the love Arwen Undómiel had pledged to him so long ago. It was that which had earned even the Elvenking's respect, when Legolas had told his father of it.

_And now?_ If those same Men had stood under the King's judgment today, and their fates had depended upon Elessar's whim, while all the city howled for their blood . . . would Aragorn still do the same?

_Yes._ His first, instinctive thought was _yes,_ but that was born of his own devotion to this Man, love and trust forged in the Wilds far from the burdens of kingship and destiny. Once he would have said that it did not matter – he _knew _Aragorn, knew the strength and honor and nobility in him, and those would be unchanged whether he were hailed as a King of Men or scorned as a ragged Ranger of the North. He would have said – _had _said, to his father and to Lord Elrond, that Aragorn was worthy of the trust of Men and Elves, of the love of Arwen Undómiel, of the love of Legolas himself.

And he had been right. Whether tempted by the One Ring, or faced with the dark horror of the Dead, or even with the will of Sauron himself in the palantír, Aragorn had not faltered. He had proved himself worthy of all the weight and honor of his lineage, of his people, and his crown. Legolas had been right to trust him all those years. _Arwen _had been right to trust him. Was it not equally right to trust him now?

But Arwen feared him. She loved him still: that much Legolas had felt, but slowly fear was growing stronger. And Aragorn had hurt the Evenstar. Whether physically or mentally, he had harmed her and that could not be forgotten.

_Valar, Legolas! I love her!_ But he had hurt her just the same.

And in his eyes there had been nothing: no sign of remembered love and friendship, no hint of trust.

And Legolas had drawn blades against his friend. That too could not be forgotten, nor could Legolas forgive himself for it. All these long years he had stood at this Man's side in protection and in fellowship, and in a moment of blind instinct he had erased it all.

_I need someone I can trust_ . . . and how could Legolas ask for his trust now, when he had shown none himself?

His father would have scorned that thought – after all, the Man had attacked _him._ Was he then not to defend himself?

And Legolas thought about that, as the night wind swept back long tendrils of his hair and the cold stars wheeled overhead. The Elves of Greenwood did not give their friendship lightly. But once given, there were none in Middle-earth more loyal, and the bond upon an Elven heart could not be broken.

Aragorn would not hurt him. He believed that – he _had_ to believe it. To do otherwise would be to admit to fear, and to grant victory to the black shadow cast upon his friend. No. That shadow was not complete, and Estel yet lived within the body of the King. Legolas had sensed him, had _seen_ him, and the bond between them was not broken. Even now he could feel the turmoil within Aragorn, rage and grief and hope and fear churning in an endless roil. He felt the struggle even as he had done in Ithilien, though he did not understand whence it came.

But if he was to help Aragorn win this battle, he must be worthy of his trust. And though the King might have forgotten Elven tradition and friendship, the Prince could not. Whatever might come, whatever price might be required, Legolas would pay it. To save his friend, he would give anything. He loved him.

_Prove it_.

How? How did one prove love? He had never been able to explain it, this connection he felt to Elrond's foster son. It was not based on any debt or deed, despite all their journeys together. It was not physical, for though Legolas admired his friend's strength and courage, whatever attraction Arwen found in his unwashed ruggedness had thus far eluded him.

But he had pledged his love just the same, and if the madness within his friend now required proof, then proof Legolas would give. He would regain the King's trust, and he would bring Aragorn back to himself. He would.

He just did not yet know how.

*~*~*

Aragorn slumped in a chair in the empty suite, his feet stretched toward the dying fire while the rain hissed against the windowpane. The braziers burned low, and he had closed off the lamps, so that the room was lit only by the flickering red flames. If any managed to force entrance past the guards the darkness would hide him.

He had drawn the heavy draperies after Legolas had left, but lacked the energy to do more. He did not know if the enemy's spies yet included birds or bats as Sauron's had, nor if they had assassins capable of climbing to the King's chambers, but there was no point in taking the chance.

And so he sat, in as much safety as could be hoped for now, and stared into the burning coals. Foolish, he knew, for the afterimage would play against him if he were surprised, but he could not look away. A lick of flame, a flare of red and gold leaped up and died away in a single breath, a bit of wood crumbled into ash, and the shadows grew in its dying.

In the War, Minas Tirith had burned.

His eyes were hot. Finally he looked away, rubbing the sting from beneath his lids, and heaved himself to his feet. The room felt cold after the fire's warmth, and dark shades flickered upon the walls, grotesque shapes leering up and falling away before him, watchful eyes cast in firelight. He did not shiver in the chill air, did not falter as he walked with steady stride through the illusions toward the door, though he kept one hand on the hilt of the knife in his belt.

Minas Tirith had burned, and he had smelled the stench of it, the white city like a thousand pyres, even over the sea wind that bore him up from Pelargir.

A table corner caught his leg just above mid-thigh. He swore, staggering off balance. As he caught himself a tap sounded on the door. It cracked open, and a maid leaned in, silhouetted in a fan of golden lamplight. She peered into the room, her round face hesitant and searching. "My lord? Are you well?"

"Yes," Aragorn snapped, more sharply than he meant to. He rubbed his thigh. He could feel the bruise forming there already. "We are finished here," he added more gently, wishing she would not jump and stare like that – with her mouth open, she looked like a stranded fish. He reached the door and the girl stepped back, giving him room to pass.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she said, bobbing her head in a curtsy. "Shall we clear the tables then, sire?"

He opened his mouth to say yes, fine, whatever it took so that she would leave him in peace, and then hesitated. Her eyes were cast down, but now and again she glanced up at him, and something in her honest, homely face struck him as beautiful. She was one of his people. This maid, with her cap gone askew and wisps of plain brown hair straying from beneath it, she depended on him to keep her safe.

He was staring at her, and she shifted her weight from side to side, glancing up briefly and then looking down, and finally said, "My lord?"

Aragorn swallowed. "Do you trust me, Kaimil?"

Her eyes were huge, her face pale, and she gave a nervous giggle. "You are King, my lord. Of course I trust you."

"Of course," Aragorn murmured. "And can I trust you?" He half lifted one hand toward her face, suddenly fascinated by the play of lamplight on her cheek, but she giggled again and backed away, ducking in another swift curtsy. "My lord?"

Aragorn let his hand fall back to his side. "No matter," he said. His chest felt leaden, as though a great weight had settled within it. "It does not matter. Leave the room," he added, turning away. "It will keep till morning. Get some rest."

He ignored her exclamation of thanks and crossed the foyer toward the bedchamber. The guard at the inner door saluted smartly and stepped aside, allowing him entrance. Aragorn nodded acknowledgement and turned the handle carefully, not wishing to disturb Elven ears more than necessary. His feet sank into rich carpet as he crossed the threshold – part of the dowry Arwen had brought from Imladris, a softening touch over the cold stone floor. He closed the door with a quiet click behind him, but his care was unnecessary.

Soft candlelight filled the room, and the large bed was empty. Arwen half-reclined upon the window seat, her long fingers marking the page of a book in her lap but her face turned toward the open window at her side. The drapes were thrown back, and the many panes of glass cast multiple reflections of the room, the Queen framed plainly against the black outside.

Aragorn stood frozen a moment in blank, disbelieving shock. Then he was moving, his heart pounding as he raced forward and caught his wife's arm. Arwen cried out in surprise as he dragged her to her feet, pulling her from the window in a sharp movement. He clawed at the drapes, their wooden rings rattling as he yanked them closed before whirling to face her.

"_What are you doing?_" His limbs felt watery, weak from the shock. The blood was roaring in his ears, and there was a bitter taste of fear like iron in his mouth. With an effort he resisted the urge to shake her. "_How _many times have I told you –"

Arwen's face was pale, but she stepped back, pulling her arm from his grasp. "Let go of me."

The shock was fading, replaced by a cold anger that seeped through him, and Aragorn spoke slowly, with icy control. "I have told you again and again, my lady. There are dangers here, threats that you do not understand. I am trying to keep you safe."

Bright spots of color flared on Arwen's cheeks, and she lifted her chin. "I am not some pet of yours, Aragorn, to be caged and protected."

He clenched his teeth, so that a spike of pain shot up his jaw into his temple. "Apparently you do not know what you are, my lady. But as Queen of Gondor, you will obey me as your lord and master, and I _will _protect you, whether that suits your _preference_ or not."

A tremor seemed to run through Arwen's slender frame, but she stood straight, and her eyes flashed. "And if I refuse?"

Aragorn met her gaze. His heart was seized in fear, but anger masked it, and far back in his mind a cool voice whispered soft logic, _does she not realize the danger? Could the daughter of Elrond, the issue of Galadriel, be such a fool? Or rather, is it that she has no _reason _to fear? What secrets did she share with Legolas, before you found them?_

He would not think that. He could not bear to think that – his wife and his closest friend, conspiring against him . . . no. He would not think it. _He would not_.

So he pushed the creeping doubt away, burying it in the hidden recesses of his mind, where it lingered. And when he spoke his voice sounded weak to his ears, weak and ineffectual, and he despised himself for it. "Have you reason to refuse, my lady?"

Arwen released a breath, almost a sigh. "How can you ask me that, my lord? When for all these months you have been so cold, and the servants are afraid to even look at you, and all your talk is of obedience and mastery, and now you would command even Legolas to prove his troth to you –"

Aragorn stiffened. "You listened in upon us?"

Arwen broke off, her eyes wide. Suddenly she seemed uncertain, vulnerable, and Aragorn was acutely aware of the movement of her throat as she swallowed, the contrast of her pale skin and light nightdress to the black torrent of her hair. She was off balance, uncertain, and Aragorn felt a surge of power at her fear. He was in control again.

He stepped forward, watching as she backed against the wall, and he smiled slightly. "That wasn't very nice, was it, my sweet?" he asked. She could go no farther. He lifted a hand and brushed back the tendrils of her hair, his fingers just skirting the tip of her ear. Arwen closed her eyes, her lashes dark against her white skin, and he felt the shudder run through her.

He moved closer still, his fingers curled against the back of her neck, his left hand at her waist, just above the swell of her hip. He could feel her breasts pushed soft against his chest, and his voice was hoarse with dark arousal as he bent forward and whispered in her ear, "You should be more careful, my lady. One might almost think that you were not to be trusted."

She was breathing in soft, shallow gasps of air, her heart pounding against him, and Aragorn's hands tightened convulsively upon her flesh. _Valar, it would be so easy._ He drew a shuddering breath, and stepped back. He could see the tears on her lashes as she stood trembling before him, and his heart swelled in a painful mix of longing and self-loathing. _It isn't supposed to be like this!_ But he didn't know how to make it right again.

"I love you so much," he said at last, and the words were true, whether she believed them or not. "Trust me, in this at least. Let me keep you safe."

And he broke away, stumbling across the room, not daring to look back. His mind was whirling with conflicting desires, aching arousal, and he wanted to take her, and make love to her, and have her love him in return. But another, deeper part of him wanted to control her, and pleasure her, and hurt her, and make her beg for him. And he did not know which desire was the stronger.

So he fled, hardly seeing the guard at the bedchamber door, ignoring the watchmen at the outer entrance who scrambled to hasty attention as he passed. He fled, walking with swift strides down the corridor, his hands clenched at his sides and his eyes burning.

_And if I refuse?_ How could he protect her, if she did not obey him? How could he trust her? How could he trust any of them?

His heels clicked a sharp rhythm on the stone floor, his shadow rising and shrinking on the wall beside him as he passed from one torch bracket to the next.

First Arwen, then Legolas . . . he had warned them. He had given them every chance to obey, and see how they flaunted his authority. Everywhere he turned there was naught but suspicion, and doubt, and now when he _told _them what was required, to do their duty to Gondor, to him, they treated him with scorn.

He moved unheedingly through various branching passages and turns, his feet carrying him on a path long ingrained in habit. Finally he reached the great door, iron barred and locked fast. The guard jerked to alertness and saluted, but Aragorn was already drawing the key from his pocket. There was only one key to this door, and only he held it.

He waited until the door locked fast again behind him, and then set off up the winding stairs. Three hundred steps there were to the top of the tower, or so he had been told – he had never counted them himself. An occasional small window cut in the stone gave glimpses of the night sky, but the only light came from small torches set along the passage.

Not for nothing had he been called Strider, and Elessar Telcontar ran up the stairs, his feet pounding echoes that fled away before him.

_Control._ He was losing control. He could feel it slipping through his fingers, his plans unraveling in the gleam of light upon Legolas' knives, in the sparkle of Arwen's tears. _How can I protect them, if they do not obey?_ Valar, could they not see that he loved them?

Another locked door, smaller this time, was at the top of the stair. Aragorn burst through it, and stopped. The weight of power in this room struck him like a blow, and he waited, his stomach churning, for his senses to adjust.

The stone lay upon a wooden planked table, covered with a plain grey cloth. He faced it, breathing hard, and reached for the chair to steady himself. A hundred times he had done this – a thousand times – and still it sickened him.

But he had once vanquished the will of Sauron through this stone, the palantír of Orthanc, and there was nothing like that evil in it now. There was only power, and power, he had learned, could be controlled.

The vertigo passed, and he sank into the chair, and his hand did not shake as he drew the cloth away. The stone was dark, fathoms deep and black. Aragorn closed his eyes and drew a slow, centering breath. It was not a question of magic or sorcery: there were no words or incantations required. There was only will, and strength of mind, and truly there were none now to oppose him.

But still he said the words, as an aid to his own concentration, and opened his eyes. "Show me."

For a moment the palantír remained blank, and then slowly fire swirled within its depths. Faster it came, filling the globe, and then cleared. And in its place there were legions of ranked troops, gathering, preparing armor and weapons that gleamed in the light of many fires. Cold, pitiless eyes were shrouded behind black veils, and the desert stars wheeled overhead.

Aragorn's head ached with the effort of keeping the palantír focused upon the enemy so far away. His eyes itched and his skin felt slack with weariness. His body hurt, his mind and will stretched near the breaking point. But still he watched, as the hours crept by and the sky lightened to the east.

The enemy was coming. Not yet, they were not ready yet, but soon. Soon they would come. And already there might be spies in his own household, and who better to use against him, than the ones he loved best? Fire swirled in the palantír, and it faded to black, but Aragorn did not see it.

_The Elf has already defied you twice. Will you still trust him? Will you trust _Gondor _to him?_

And the stench of the white city's burning was like a thousand pyres.

Aragorn put his head down on his arms, and wept.

* * *

1 Ithil: Sindarin, the moon.


	6. The Council of Elessar

"Men need many words before deeds."

– Gimli, _The King of the Golden Hall_

Chapter 5: The Council of Elessar

Gimli awoke in an excellent mood. He had spent most of the previous evening in Éomer's company, and found the young king to be an ideal companion as he recovered from four days' travel with the Elf. Legolas had shown all range of Wood-elven changeability during their journey to Minas Tirith. First there had been the fell intensity with which he had insisted that they ride from dawn until well past dark, which gave way to light-hearted amusement as he joked and sang during the interminable hours of jouncing along on Arod's back. And then there was the grim taciturnity with which he had stood watch and paced when at last the horse achieved what Gimli could not, and forced them to halt and rest for the night.

Éomer's straightforward, direct manner was a welcome relief after all of that. Indeed, Gimli had found in him something of a kindred spirit, and the initial clash of their personalities upon the fields of Rohan had soon given way to a lasting friendship.

He was now educating Éomer in the fine art of smoking pipeweed, and he had high hopes for the King of Rohan's future success. Certainly the Man showed better potential for it than Boromir ever had, and Gimli's single aborted attempt to introduce Legolas to the practice had resulted in the breaking of his best clay pipe and the soaking of his entire pipeweed supply, not to mention most of himself, in the river Anduin.

This diversion, together with Éomer's hospitality in the form of a roaring fire in the hearth, a fine spread of meats and cheeses on the table, three casks of mulled ale, a towel for his hair and dry socks for his feet, had effectively banished Legolas' misgivings from his mind. Even the extra guard at the door was forgotten by the time they finished off the pipeweed and moved on to serious appreciation of the ale, which in turn aided their discussion of Éomer's plans for improving Helm's Deep.

Gimli had overseen the repair of the Deeping Wall after the War, but that had been done of necessity, and in penurious fashion due to Rohan's strained finances. Long years spent upon the brink of war, with more crops burned than harvested and more horses stolen than traded, had left the country near bankruptcy despite the taxes imposed by Wormtongue. But with the defeat of Sauron the harvests had improved, and Éomer had proved himself a shrewd negotiator in his renewed treaties with Gondor and Ithilien. Slowly he had built up Meduseld's treasuries again, and now could consider implementing the changes that Gimli had dearly wanted to make from the moment he had first laid eyes upon the Rohirric refuge.

They began simply enough, sketching with charcoal on a bit of parchment, but as the night lengthened and the ale flowed freely they found a more three-dimensional approach better.

"Like this here," Gimli explained, gesturing with his mug. "This sofa, this is the Hornburg. And this is the entrance to the tower –"

"It needs to be taller," Éomer said, and upended the furniture in question. Gimli was unfazed. "Right. So you have a stone, a stone…"

"Causeway," the King said, dragging a table into position. He paused to drink from his mug, found it empty, and looked around for the second cask.

"Stone causeway," Gimli said, as Eomer filled his tankard. "And it goes all the way up to the gate, you see? And it's made of ruddy stone!"

"I thought that Dwarves liked stone."

"Not for the front walkway of a fortress! Can't move it or burn it when the enemy is coming, now can you?"

Éomer frowned. "It has to hold the weight of the horses."

"So you build a drawbridge in front of the blasted gate! Good thick heavy wood, will hold the horses, and when you pull it up you've got twenty feet of space between you and the ruddy Orcs, and no bloody great battering ram smashing your door in!" Gimli finished with a flourish and put down the long cushion he'd used to demonstrate this concept. He paused to consider the upended sofa for a moment. "A portcullis might not be a bad idea either."

It was much, much later, after the ale was long gone and the fire had burned down to a few glowing coals, that Gimli finally left Éomer King's chambers and made his way to his own quarters. He was humming the refrain of a Rohirric drinking song to himself and he hardly glanced at the guard that fell in unobtrusively behind him. It seemed that Legolas had been right about one thing, at least: the citadel was swarming with soldiers. Well, if they had nothing better to do than follow him around, so be it. At least they weren't trying to direct his movements any longer.

He felt somewhat less forgiving about it the following morning, however, when yet another fresh-faced young Man was waiting for him outside his chamber door. Never mind that the lad was a good foot taller than him, he was so skinny that Gimli could have snapped him over his knee like kindling, and the thought of this child protecting him was laughable. If anything did happen, Gimli thought, he would be encumbered by having to rescue his guard.

But the morning was peaceful, the previous night's storm had cleared and the few high glassless windows that Gimli passed gave glimpses of blue sky and the occasional snatch of birdsong outside. It was early yet, but the guest wing of the palace was crowded with chamber maids and servants, laughing, calling to one another as they moved from room to room with baskets of fresh linens, small flat shovels to clear the ash from the fireplaces, soapy water and covered buckets for the chamber pots.

They paused to bow as Gimli passed, and he smiled and nodded in return. He had reason to appreciate the household staff today, as the clean tunic and leggings he wore attested, as did the bath he had enjoyed that morning, and never mind that the water had been cool because he had been too tired to take it last night. He did spare a thought to consider, as he watched them bustle from room to room, just how many guests were now staying at the citadel. When Legolas had told him of the King's summons, he had assumed that Aragorn merely wanted to see his old friend privately, for he himself had received no such request. Éomer's presence belied that assumption, and now he wondered. Just what was Aragorn planning for this "Council"?

Ah well, he would find out soon enough. With his usual pragmatism he dismissed these speculations and focused a much more immediate goal: breakfast. It would be served in the great hall, of course, and he set out with the brisk, arm-swinging stride of a Dwarf on a mission that left his guard, despite his longer legs, half-running to keep up.

He glanced over at Legolas' door as he passed, but did not stop. The Elf would have been up hours ago, singing to the sunrise or some such thing, and in any case Gimli had learned that it was virtually impossible to surprise him while he was sleeping. There were other ways to repay the Prince for the long, cold, break-neck journey to which he had subjected Gimli, and he amused himself by contemplating the possibilities as he moved down the stairs toward the ground floor.

Two serving maids were standing just outside the double doors to the hall, the taller one resting a basket of bread on her hip as she inclined her head toward her companion, who was speaking quickly, her hands moving in swift, animated gestures.

"And then," Gimli's sharp ears caught the words as he approached, "he sheaths his knife and he steps back, see, and he says to him, 'What honor remains to the Queen of Gondor?' I heard it with my own ears, Anril, I swear it, and his voice was so _cold _it sent a shiver down my back, it was like he was _that _close to calling the guards and, and having him arrested, or, or something. And Lord Legolas, he just stood there, but it was like he was, like he was holding himself back, and I was thinking, he still has those knives, and maybe I should call the guards myself, but he is the King's friend, isn't he, but then the King was so _angry_, and why would he be if he hadn't done anything wrong –"

The taller girl shook her head. "My mother says that you shouldn't trust Elves, Kaimil. They can put this charm on you, so you do whatever they want – maybe that's what happened. Maybe the King figured out that he'd been under this spell, and that's why he's been so –"

"No! You didn't see him, Anril, it wasn't like that at all. And you know we aren't to talk like that – the Queen is part Elf too, they say. No, if you want to know what I think," she lowered her voice, "I think the King is –"

But she broke off suddenly as the other girl stiffened, catching sight of Gimli. The two maids stepped back and bowed as he reached them. He nodded, wishing he could ask them to just ignore him and continue their conversation – it was by far the most interesting that he had heard in some days. But it was no use, and so he continued past them and pushed open the doors to the great hall, his stomach rumbling.

From the sounds of it, though, Legolas had had an interesting night. He would definitely have to ask him about it at some point in the future. He thought again of the Elf's unease as they had stood upon the landing the previous evening, and he repressed a shiver. _Something is not right here _. . . and just why, Gimli wondered, had Aragorn been so insistent that Legolas come alone?

What had before seemed mere oversight – the King would have known that the Elf would bring Gimli with him, and so the Dwarf's invitation was simply implicit in Legolas' – now took on a more sinister light. Legolas had not shown him the message from Aragorn. He had merely said that it was urgent, and that they must leave at once. And he had not seemed overly surprised when the guards had stopped them. He had been defiant, yes, commanding, yes, but not surprised. And he had not protested when Gimli had been led away to see Éomer. He _had_ warned him to be on guard, but that, so far as Gimli was concerned, was a redundancy. It was almost as if he had expected them to be separated at some point. And come to think of it, just how had Éomer known to invite Gimli to his quarters, if none of the guards had been told to expect him?

It was all a mystery and Gimli did not care for mysteries. He would get the answers soon enough, he decided, if he had to smack Legolas and Aragorn upside the head to do it. And in the meanwhile, he thought, perhaps it would be a good idea if he did not allow himself to be so easily separated from the Elf.

A low rumble of conversation greeted him as he walked past the guards and into the great hall. Dozens of long wooden tables were crowded with Men, servants and guards and sundry others gathered to break fast together. Gimli's own guard finally fell away and went to join one of the tables, much to the Dwarf's relief.

Gimli caught the scent of fresh baked bread and ham, rashers of bacon and potatoes as he passed. Sweet smelling grasses were mixed in with the rushes on the floor, and the tapestries along the walls showed signs of having been recently cleaned and repaired. Arwen's work, most certainly, and Gimli smiled a little to himself as he made his way up toward the head table set crosswise at the end of the hall. He rather doubted that Aragorn would have noticed so small a detail as whether the straw in the hall needed changing, but Gimli had known Legolas long enough to appreciate an Elf's sensitivity to smell.

The King and Queen were not present, however, and the nobles gathered around the head table were relaxed and talking in a distinctly non-noble fashion. Gimli saw Faramir leaning back with his feet up on the edge of the table, smiling at something that a slender, dark haired lord was saying to him.

Gimli narrowed his eyes as he neared them. There was something familiar about that lord who leaned forward in his chair, his long hands forming graceful shapes in the air before him as he spoke. Faramir said something in reply, and the Man laughed, looking out over the crowded hall, and his keen grey eyes caught Gimli's.

"Lord Gimli?" he said, straightening, and Faramir looked up.

"Prince Imrahil," Gimli said, now recalling the lord who had joined them at Gondor's greatest need during the War, and who had in fact commanded the defense of Minas Tirith for a short time. He bowed briefly. "Lord Faramir. At your service, and your family's."

Faramir pushed a chair forward with his foot. "Please join us, Master Dwarf. The Council is due to begin within the hour, and there will be little repast there."

"Thank you," Gimli said, sitting down and reaching for the bread. "Then you are joining us as well?" he asked, looking toward Imrahil.

The Prince raised an eyebrow. He had a way of moving, so quick and light, and his face was so fair when he smiled, that Gimli could easily see why Legolas claimed he had Elven heritage. He found himself checking the tips of the Prince's ears surreptitiously as they talked.

"Indeed," Imrahil now said. "Though I was not aware that I would share such august company when I arrived three days ago. Are there other Dwarves with you, Lord Gimli?"

Gimli shook his head. "Nay. Just myself, and the Elf." And now come to think of it, that seemed a bit odd as well. It seemed that every important lord remaining in the West were gathering here now, but the Lord of Aglarond had not been summoned. True, Aragorn might yet have assumed he would join Legolas, but if so then what of Thorin? What of Erebor? For that matter, what of the Elvenking of Mirkwood? Not that Gimli was eager to see Thranduil again, but if this Council was as important as it appeared to be, should not the last remaining Elven kingdom in Middle-earth be represented?

"Lord Legolas?" Imrahil said. "Is he here then as well? He visited us not long ago – I should like to speak with him again."

Gimli put his knife straight through the roll he meant to be buttering. "He visited you?" he choked, his voice nearly an octave higher than it should have been. He gave a small cough and took a drink from his wine goblet. "In Dol Amroth? When?"

"Some months ago – in September, I think it was." Imrahil looked at him curiously. "I actually did not have much opportunity to speak with him – he spent most of his time walking along the seashore, as I recall. He seemed more interested in the sailing boats than in discussing matters of state."

"Oh, I just bet he was," Gimli growled under his breath. His goblet was perilously close to breaking as his hand clenched upon it, and he noticed the danger just in time to set it down abruptly, sloshing wine over tablecloth. _I'll kill him. Pulling a fool stunt like that – he **knows **the danger he's in, and then he goes gallivanting about to the seaside, never mind a word to those who need him here, no, he's off to look at the bloody sailing boats!_

"You didn't actually _take _him on one of these boats of yours, did you?" he asked.

"The answer to that, elvellon, is no, he did not." Legolas' clear voice came from just over his shoulder, and he wheeled about, startled, to find the Elf leaning casually against the wall behind him.

Gimli glared at him. "How did you get there?" he demanded. The only entrance apart from the kitchens and the King's Door was at the far end of the hall, and he was quite certain that he would have seen anyone approaching from that direction.

"It is remarkable what an Elf can do, if properly motivated," Éomer said then, limping up to the table. His eyes were bloodshot, and he pressed a hand to his head as though afraid it might break if moved too suddenly. "Thank you," he added, seating himself gingerly as Faramir pushed a cup of strong black tea toward him. "I am glad that you did not prove to be a spy as once I thought, Master Elf. We had enough trouble with Wormtongue – I should not have liked to have faced you as well."

Legolas smiled a little, but said nothing. Gimli snorted. Éomer cracked one eye at him. "Neither do I discount the strengths of the Dwarves, Lord Gimli," he said. "Indeed I have too evident proof of that this morning, obviously." He lowered his head until it almost touched the table, and cradled the steaming mug of tea in his hands.

Gimli leaned back in his chair, slightly mollified. He _had _seen Éomer coming, at least, though he would not claim too great a feat in that accomplishment. The Man was clearly not in his best form this morning, and Gimli felt a brief regret for that third cask of ale. He had restrained his own intake, mindful of the meeting the next morning, but apparently he had neglected to account for Men's weaker constitutions. Ah well. The King would survive. At the moment he was more concerned with the Elf behind him, and if Legolas thought he would get off that easily, he was sadly mistaken.

Imrahil was now rising. "Your presence honors us, Lord Legolas," he said courteously. "Please, won't you join us?"

Legolas pushed off the wall and bowed, placing a hand over his heart. "_Im veren o govaded vîn_,1 Prince Imrahil, Lord Faramir. It has been too long."

"Longer for some than for others, it seems," Gimli said, eyeing the Elf as he dropped into a chair.

"Peace, elvellon," Legolas said easily. "It was merely a visit to the seashore. Naught occurred, I assure you."

"Hmph." Gimli strongly doubted that, but there was little that he could do about it now. "Made friends with the seagulls, then, did you?" he muttered, pitching his voice for only Elven ears to hear, and was rewarded with the jumping of a muscle in Legolas' jaw.

"Not exactly," the Prince admitted, not looking at him. "I shall tell you the tale in full, Gimli, what little there is to tell of it. Later. Now," he said, glancing up, "I fear we have little time. The Council is about to begin."

Gimli followed his gaze to see a page making his way purposefully toward them. There could be little doubt as to his intent, and already Faramir and Imrahil were on their feet, brushing the crumbs from their tunics. Gimli sighed and pushed himself up, grabbing a last bite of bacon as he did so and licking the grease from his fingers. Éomer groaned at this sight and shut his eyes, swaying, but at least he was on his feet.

Gimli patted his back comfortingly as they set off for the Council Chamber, but his mind was far from the King of Rohan's discomfort. Aragorn's meeting was about to begin. And it was high time, Gimli thought, for some answers.

*~*~*

But when they arrived at the Council Chamber Aragorn was not there. Sunlight was streaming through the tall leaded windows to the east, casting a crisscrossed pattern of pale diamonds upon the rich varnish of the table. The light caught the frayed edges of the tapestries upon the walls, and the air was cool and musty with the dry scent of dust.

_I suppose Arwen hasn't gotten to this room yet, _Gimli thought. But as he looked up at the high rafters coated in soot from the fireplace, he had the uncomfortable feeling that the Queen had never set foot in this, the King's conference chamber. For some reason the thought made him uneasy.

And where was Aragorn, anyway? The others were following Faramir's lead and seating themselves around the table with varying degrees of comfort. The page left them with the promise that the King would join them soon, and then they were alone, save for the inevitable guards outside the door.

Gimli found himself thinking about those guards as the minutes lengthened in silence. Faramir was leaning back in his chair, watching the others with hooded eyes. Éomer was picking at a small chip in the table's varnish, looking bored. Imrahil lounged in his chair with easy grace, his long legs stretched before him but his grey eyes alert and watchful. And Legolas had not sat down at all, but stood near the foot of the table, his whole body tensed as though listening.

The Dwarf was about to suggest that they play a game to pass the time, nine-stones or dice perhaps, when the chamber door opened. "His Majesty, King Elessar Telcontar," the page announced, and they all rose to their feet as Aragorn entered. Gimli bowed with the others, and then straightened, studying the King as he passed.

He was wearing a simple red surcoat with a subtle design about the collar and sleeveless cuffs. It hung to the knee of his charcoal grey leggings and flared slightly behind him as he walked. The long sleeves of his under-tunic were gathered at his wrists, and his ceremonial knife was buckled low over his lean hips. He looked much the same as he always had, Gimli thought, with his hair trimmed just above his shoulders and perhaps a bit cleaner than it had been in his ranger days. But still, there was something different about him. His shoulders were bowed slightly, as though with weariness or some heavy burden, and when he reached the head of the table and turned to face them the morning light caught the deep lines of his face, casting the hollows of his cheeks and eyes into shadow.

Gimli's sense of unease increased. Most likely Aragorn had simply been delayed – he certainly looked as though he'd been up all night with some business or other. But the effect: summoning them together, making them wait, and now, the way they were all standing, waiting for his signal to be seated . . . it felt uncomfortably like one of the tricks that old Thorin Oakenshield used to play, a way of keeping his followers just slightly off guard, of keeping himself in control.

He shook off the feeling as the King sat down at last, nodding for them all to join him. This was Aragorn, after all. He was the last Man to play games of that sort, and in any case there was no need for them here. And yet . . . Faramir and Imrahil, surely the two Men present who were most familiar with courtly protocol, were exchanging uneasy looks. Gimli glanced over at Legolas as they all sat down again. The Elf was frowning, his eyes narrowed upon the King with an intensity that might have cut glass.

"My friends," Aragorn said, apparently oblivious of the charged atmosphere, "welcome. I must thank you for coming so quickly, and with so little notice." _Or with no notice,_ Gimli thought, but said nothing.

"I've asked you all here today because I need your help. Indeed, Gondor needs your aid, but in truth this is a danger faced by us all."

"And what is the nature of this danger, my lord?" Imrahil asked.

Aragorn leaned forward, folding his hands on the table before him. Sunlight flashed on the edge of the circlet that he wore, and Gimli noticed that there was a bit more grey in his hair than there had been that past summer. "The Haradrim," he said grimly, "are marshalling their armies. Already my sources tell me that they have strength of arms nearly three-quarters of the might they had under Sauron, and they grow greater by the day. There are factions within them who opposed the peace treaty signed with Gondor and the Free Peoples, and those factions have now gained control. They plan to march upon Gondor with the coming of spring, and they will not stop there."

There was a moment's shocked silence following this announcement, and then Imrahil released a long breath. "Are you certain, my lord? I have spies along the borders of the Easterlings and Southrons, and I have heard of no such preparations."

Aragorn turned to look at him. "Then I would respectfully suggest that you find new spies, Prince Imrahil. But I assure you: this threat is real. And Dol Amroth will be the first in line of their attack. Are you willing to take that chance?"

Imrahil held the King's gaze for a moment, and then dropped his eyes. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but did not answer. Éomer shifted in his chair. "What do you propose, my lord?"

Aragorn took a deep breath. "We must fight. And we must strike them now, before they grow any stronger. I propose that we join our forces, and march upon Harad together. We will defeat them before they ever draw near our peoples."

Faramir drew a sharp breath. Éomer was frowning. "It will take time to gather such an army, my lord. Many of Rohan's warriors have returned to their families, and are working to rebuild their villages. We have had peace for four years now, and they will not want to think again of war."

"I know," Aragorn said. He smiled a little, almost wistfully. "I would that they could remain so, in peace. But we have no choice. If we do not face this threat together, we will fall before it separately. Gondor does not have the strength to fight alone."

"Must we fight at all?" Faramir asked. "Surely they are as weary of war as we are. You have traveled in Harad before, Elessar. We could send a diplomatic envoy, with suitable escort, to –"

"No!" Aragorn cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "That is," he said, more calmly, "that option is closed to us. Perhaps we could have done so once, but the tribal lords who first agreed to peace are gone. The new leaders are younger, and they have been raised on the false promises of Sauron, taught to value war and death in battle before all else. We dare not trust them."

Imrahil leaned forward in his chair. "Do you mean that the Haradrim are united, King Elessar? I have heard nothing of that – their tribal factions are more ancient than even the grudge they hold against the West. It would be a rare leader who could bring them together – even Sauron could not manage that."

Aragorn hesitated. Gimli saw it, the slumping of his shoulders, the deepening of the lines in his brow as he passed a hand over his eyes, as if in pain. Legolas tensed, poised at the edge of his chair. "I do not know," Aragorn said finally, his voice soft. "I . . . I do not think so. I did not see . . ." He broke off, shaking his head. "It does not matter. Whether under one leader or a dozen, they are united in purpose at least. They mean to destroy the peoples of the West."

He looked at them all then, and Gimli saw that his eyes were as clear and sincere as ever, his voice firm. "I swear to you, I will not let that happen. Who will join me?"

Éomer spoke first. "I once swore an oath to you, my lord, to aid you when you called, and even were Rohan not threatened, still I would do the same. But it will take time to gather the army."

Aragorn smiled fully for the first time, and his gaze was warm as he clasped Éomer's arm in warrior salute. "I knew you would, old friend."

He sobered a little as he looked again at the others. "We have a month at most. Even apart from the enemy's growing threat, we must begin this campaign by mid-April at the latest. We cannot risk being caught in the heat of the desert summer."

Gimli frowned more deeply. Something about all of this was nagging at him, and he could not let it go any longer. "Aragorn, are you proposing that you and Éomer go off to the desert with the complete armies of Gondor and Rohan, and leave your countries with neither King nor army to protect them?"

Aragorn looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "They should have no need of the army here, Lord Gimli. We will prevent the enemy from ever striking close to them. That is the point."

Gimli shook his head. "Even if the Haradrim are doing as you say, Aragorn," – he ignored the darkening of the King's expression at these words – "there are other dangers in Middle-earth. There are still bands of Orcs scattered around, and they attacked Legolas' settlement in Ithilien just last year. You cannot just march off and expect every other force in Ennor to kindly not bother them until the armies return."

Faramir leaned forward. "Lord Gimli is correct, sire. We must leave a small contingent to defend Minas Tirith at least, and Éomer King cannot abandon Meduseld either. The citizens must have a place of refuge in case of attack."

Aragorn's lips thinned. "We cannot weaken our offensive force either. If we fail to defeat the enemy in this first strike, I fear that no residual defense will be enough." He closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked at Gimli. "But you speak truly, Master Dwarf. I will leave five hundred soldiers here, under Lord Faramir's command, if you will also stay and direct the fortification of the city."

Gimli hesitated. He meant to counsel prudence, but he had no intention of being left out of whatever action there was to be had. Besides which, he had vowed to stay with Legolas, and the Elf had yet to indicate where he stood in this discussion at all. But Faramir was nodding in acceptance, and the whole table was looking at him expectantly. He glanced back at Legolas. The Prince met his gaze and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Gimli huffed and resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "As you wish, my lord," he said, and Aragorn sat back in his chair, satisfied.

Imrahil looked troubled. "I can spare a small force to join you, my lord, given a month to muster the Knights. But as you say, Dol Amroth is the first line of defense should any break through your lines. I think my best support will be in succoring your forces before they set out, and providing a guard at your border."

The king nodded. "Whatever aid you can spare will be most welcome, Lord Imrahil, and your hospitality not the least. Well do I remember the valiant Knights of Dol Amroth, and it will be a comfort to have them at our back."

There was a pause. Aragorn looked down the length of the table to where Legolas sat silent and watchful. The Elf met his eyes, but did not speak. Gimli found himself holding his breath, though he did not know why.

"Well, Lord Legolas?" Aragorn said, his voice soft. "What say you?"

Legolas spoke slowly, as though weighing each word. "The Elves of Ithilien are few, my lord, and they are not soldiers."

"They are Elves from Mirkwood, Legolas. I cannot believe they are untrained in weapons craft."

The Prince shook his head. "They are skilled in self defense, certainly. But to march to a foreign land, to wage war on an enemy they do not know . . . no. There are few warriors who could do such a thing, and they are needed where they are. As Lord Gimli has noted, we have been subject to attack already, and we may be so again." He drew a resigned breath. "The remaining Orcs seem drawn to us, somehow."

Aragorn was very still. There was a light in his grey eyes as he studied the Elf, and somehow they seemed cold, calculating. Gimli felt himself tense, as though anticipating an attack. "And you, Legolas?" the King's voice was like velvet. "Where do you stand?"

Legolas held his gaze, and something seemed to pass between them, a frisson of energy that raised the hairs at the back of Gimli's neck. _Legolas, no!_ He wanted to shout the warning – _there is danger here! – _but he did not know why. The Elf did not look at him.

"I stand with you, my lord, as always," he said calmly, and there was no trace of fear or doubt in his voice. "I will go with you."

Aragorn took a deep breath, almost a sigh of relief. He laughed a little, looking around at them all. The tension was broken, as if it had never been.

"Thank you, my friends," Aragorn said. He stood, drawing them all to their feet. "Thank you all." He looked at Éomer. "We have one month. How many Rohirrim can ride in a month's time?"

Éomer frowned a little. "Eight thousand I can give you at least, my lord, and still leave defense at Meduseld." He looked at Faramir. "I would ask the Lady Éowyn to command them there, if the Steward does not object."

Faramir hesitated. "We shall see," he said evasively. "I would speak to you on that matter privately, my lord."

"Join me tomorrow before you leave," Aragorn said. "We will arrange the details then." He looked around at them all again, holding their gaze one by one. "I must impress upon all of you the importance of secrecy in this matter. The enemy has spies everywhere, and I have reason to believe they have penetrated Minas Tirith, perhaps even the citadel itself. Tell no one what we intend, so far as you are able. There is no knowing who else may be watching."

His voice was low and intent, and as his eyes met Gimli's the Dwarf repressed a shiver. There was no pity in his friend's gaze just then, no mercy, and he dared not think what might happen to one who disobeyed Elessar's wishes in this matter.

Aragorn met Legolas' eyes last of all, and the two stared at each other for a long moment before the Prince stepped back and dipped his head in a perfect, courtly bow. The King nodded once in return. "I will see you all at dinner this evening, then," he said, and they hastened to bow as he walked in quick, measured strides from the room.

There was a pause after he had left, and the remaining company stared at one another in silence. Éomer was the first to move, sinking down in his chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wonderful," he groaned. "And how, pray tell, does one muster an army without telling them what it is for?"

Imrahil smiled. Gimli was trying to decide what to say to Legolas. _What is he thinking, that I will stay behind and let him go off alone into Mahal knows what danger, assuming Aragorn is right and this isn't some ruse to throw us off guard, and Aragorn, there's something wrong with Aragorn as well . . . _he had just about decided to skip talking and simply beat some sense into the Elf when Faramir spoke.

The Steward was standing with arms folded, looking directly at Legolas. "So tell us, my lord," he said. "For how long as King Elessar been using the palantír?"

* * *

1 _Im veren o govaded vîn_: I am joyous at our meeting.


	7. Deliberations

"What subject can give sentence on his King?"

-- William Shakespeare, _The Tragedy of King Richard the Second_

Chapter 6: Deliberations

"_What?_" Gimli said.

Faramir kept his gaze locked on Legolas. For his part the Elf did not seem in the least taken aback. "Aragorn first gazed into the palantír of Orthanc upon the night of the sixth of March, four years ago," he said calmly. "He wrested control of it from Sauron, and saw the Enemy's fleets sailing from Umbar. It was that which led him to take the Paths of the Dead."

"And since then?" the Steward prompted.

Legolas shook his head. "I do not know. He has kept it, I am certain, as was his right. But I have spent much time in Ithilien these past few years, as you know, my lord, and if Aragorn has used the stone since then it was not in my presence."

"Oh, I think he has," Faramir said grimly.

Imrahil nodded thoughtfully. "It would explain how he knows so much about the mustering of Harad, when my own sources have seen nothing."

"Provided that there _is _a mustering of Harad," Faramir muttered.

The Prince raised an eyebrow. "Do you have cause to believe otherwise, Lord Faramir?"

The Steward sighed. He looked away for a moment, his arms folded across his chest and his shoulders hunched. The morning light caught the thin planes of his face and Gimli was suddenly struck by how worn the young Man looked, as though aged by experience beyond his years.

"No," he said at last, so softly that Gimli had to concentrate to hear him. "But I do not trust that palantír – _any _palantír. It seems to me that Men do best to make their plans based on what facts they can find with their own eyes and ears, and not to rely upon visions from sources they do not understand."

"Oh?" Imrahil said. "I seem to recall you saying otherwise, when you told me of that dream of yours some years ago."

"Did I?" Faramir looked up with a wry smile. "It seems that I was mistaken."

Éomer had been watching them from under half-lowered eyelids, his head propped up against his hand. Now he straightened in his chair. "For my part I would agree with Lord Faramir," he said. "Men must see to their own welfare, and I've never held much with this Elvish mysticism – present company excepted," he added, and Legolas inclined his head with a faint smile. "But Elessar is different. He has strength of mind and will greater than any Man I've ever met. You've all seen it. The Dead followed him. Sauron himself feared him. Gandalf entrusted the palantír to him. Who among us is to say that he is wrong?"

"I do not say that he is wrong," Faramir said. "He is my King, and I trust him to do as he sees fit. But I would counsel caution. If he is relying upon the palantír, there may be . . . consequences."

"What sort of consequences?" Imrahil asked. He was leaning against the edge of the table, his arms folded and his long legs stretched in front of him. "Legend tells that the palantíri were originally of Elven make, brought over the sea by the High Kings. It is true that the Dark Lord put them to perverted use, but I have never heard that they were evil in themselves."

A muscle tensed along Faramir's jaw. "Perhaps not," he said darkly. "But even one with strength of will to control them cannot do so without being affected. Heir of Elendil though he may be, King Elessar is still a mortal, and subject to mortal weakness."

"What then?" Legolas spoke quietly, his eyes intent upon the Steward. "If indeed the King were affected as you suggest, and if he seemed to you to be not himself, what then would you do? Would you defy him?"

The question hung before them, and Gimli felt his stomach knot at the weight of its implications. _Defy him_ . . . question him, demand proof of this threat, refuse to march . . . and if the Steward disobeyed the King, what then would the army do? Would the soldiers of Gondor uphold their oaths, or would they obey the captain whom they had followed for years? What of the people? If they lost faith in their King, what would they do?

Civil war loomed in the wake of Legolas' words, and Faramir paled as understanding sank in. "No," he said with a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. "No, Legolas . . . Valar, no. I will follow him, as I have sworn to do, as we have all sworn to do," he said, looking around at Éomer and Imrahil. "But surely there is no harm in asking him at least how it is that he knows these things, when no other sources confirm it."

Imrahil sighed. "As for that, it is understandable. The War destroyed much of my spy network, and it has been difficult to rebuild. The Haradrim are extremely distrustful of us, and their tribal loyalties run deep. I have watches along the borders, and contacts among the tribes that live closest to us. But as for what might go on in the depths of the desert… I know very little. It is entirely possible that King Elessar is right, and he has seen the marshalling of armies about which I know nothing."

"Is that so unlikely?" Éomer looked around at them all. "You speak as though this were some improbable thing. But we know that the Haradrim have long resented us, and they still believe that our land is rightfully theirs. Why should they not organize against us? They know that Rohan and Gondor are still weakened from the War, and perhaps they have been able to rebuild faster than we know. If they wish to strike against us, now is the perfect time."

"And if they did not wish to, they surely will after we march into their lands with the full armies of Gondor and Rohan," Imrahil said dryly. "The fact remains, at this time war is a theoretical possibility. If we launch an attack upon them, it becomes a certainty."

"Theoretical, you say?" Éomer raised his eyebrows. "If you doubted Elessar's word, Prince Imrahil, why did you not say so during the Council?"

Imrahil met his gaze. "Perhaps I wished to wait, and hear what justification he might give for this war in conversation outside the Council chambers."

"Is he to give justification to you then?" There was an ironic lilt to Éomer's voice. "Must a King now get approval from the Prince of Dol Amroth ere he deploys his armies?"

"If the King wishes the support of my Knights, then yes," Imrahil said sharply. "And Elessar is a wise ruler to seek alliance with all Men of the West, even did he not need our help. It is a lesson doubtless learned with age and experience, Éomer King."

Gimli rolled his eyes. Bickering he could understand, but surely he and the Elf had never been this annoying. "We've come back to the same basic problem," he interrupted. Éomer and Imrahil broke off their staring match to look at him.

"And that is, Master Dwarf?" the Prince asked.

"This palantír of Aragorn's," Gimli said. "Look, ultimately what we're asking is this: do we trust Aragorn to control it? Seems to me that he did so once before all right, and he doesn't even have to contend with Sauron now."

"Indeed," Legolas said softly. He had been standing silently to one side, observing them all with that thoughtful, faintly unnerving focus of his. "And even when the Dark Lord influenced it, the palantír did not lie. Mithrandir said that it could not."

Faramir shook his head. "It isn't that. Even though it shows the truth, so much depends on how one interprets it. Whether one is driven to fight, or to despair, or . . ." he broke off.

Gimli felt a pang of sympathy for the young Man. "And you think that Aragorn might be influenced by this thing?" he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it.

The Steward looked up quickly, his eyes very bright. "It is at least a possibility, Master Dwarf," he said. "I rather recognize the symptoms."

Éomer ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck, a quick, impatient gesture. "We are agreed, then," the young King said, "that the threat at least is real. Shouldn't we focus on countering it, and leave the palantír theorizing until after our lands are safe?"

Imrahil's lips thinned. "It isn't quite that simple, my lord."

"No?" Éomer stood up. "But it is as King Elessar said: when the Haradrim attack, Dol Amroth will be the first to fall; and they will not stop there." He looked around at them all. "I am not willing to take that chance, even if you are. We have all pledged our aid to King Elessar, and if any one here would go back on his word, then I would not have him in our company."

Imrahil stared at him coolly. "No one has suggested such a thing, my lord. But we are not so foolish as to rush into war, nor to leave our people undefended."

"Indeed not," Faramir murmured. He took a deep breath. "Prince Imrahil, you said that you have watches along the border. Could you send word for them to foray deeper into Harad and perhaps find some evidence of this threat? Number of troops, strength of arms, supply routes and caravans… if we are to fight this war, I would not have us go blindly into battle."

Imrahil nodded. "We can try, my lord. But it will take time for word to reach my Men, and longer still for them to make the journey, even provided that they can learn where the armies are encamped. I cannot promise results before the month is up."

"It is at least worth the attempt," Faramir said. "Perhaps Elessar will have some suggestion of where to look – a landmark, a recognized tribal territory, something. He must know where the armies are to march."

Legolas lifted his head. "I would use caution in discussing that matter with him, Lord Faramir. You heard his concern for secrecy – it may be that he will not wish to let such information be widely known."

Faramir met the Elf's eyes for a moment, and then looked down. "It is as bad as that, then," he murmured.

There was a pause. Gimli looked from Legolas to the Steward, and then at the others. Éomer was frowning, his arms folded and his eyes narrowed as he chewed his lip. Imrahil was watching Faramir with a look of gentle understanding. And Legolas did not move, his attention focused on the young Steward, but there was a tension, an alertness in the way he held himself that instantly put Gimli on edge.

_Something is not right here_ . . . and Gimli thought again of the dark shadows under Aragorn's eyes, the slump of his shoulders and the cold menace of his voice as he had spoken of spies in their midst. That was not the friend he knew, and he wondered, for how long had Aragorn relied upon the dreams and visions of this stone of Orthanc? What had happened to him that he would doubt even his friends? _Dear Mahal, what has the boy gotten himself into now?_

At last Faramir broke the silence. "We can but try," he said. "And in the meanwhile, we will fulfill our oaths. We will summon the armies, as King Elessar commanded, and also prepare the fortification of the white city, and of Meduseld. Lord Gimli has promised his aid in that."

Gimli nodded. "I was thinking I might put in a portcullis." He caught Éomer's eye as he said this, and the young King smiled a little.

"Good," the Steward said. He looked at them all for a moment, meeting their eyes one by one. "I would remind you also of King Elessar's warning. And to it I would add this: we know very little of the palantíri, but we do know that there may be other stones in existence, and Elessar has already proved that a stone may not be limited merely to visions of another stone's location. There was no palantír upon the ships when he saw them sail from Umbar. Use caution in your dealings with each other, and with your men. There is no knowing who else may be watching."

The others nodded in understanding. But though Faramir's last words were identical to those used by Aragorn, Gimli could not help but feel that the meaning was different. Legolas had not nodded or bowed in acknowledgment at all, but fixed a piercing stare upon the Steward, as if searching for something. Faramir held the Elf's gaze for a long moment, his grey eyes clear and unapologetic, before he looked away.

And as they filed from the Council chamber, Gimli had the uncomfortable feeling that the Steward's warning was not of enemy spies with an unknown palantír, but of something more definite. He thought that Faramir might have meant to warn them of the King.

*~*~*

The sun was shining. Legolas tilted his face up, half closing his eyes against the glare. The tree in which he sat was still heavy with moisture from the storm, but the sky was a new washed blue and the sun shone with the soft clear warmth of early spring. What little breeze there was came from the south, and though it was cool it carried still the promise of warmer times to come.

If that breeze also carried the faintest tang of the sea, Legolas ignored it. His shields were fully up, his mind and body focused with all the discipline at his command. Elessar would be looking for him.

It struck Legolas as odd that the King had left them so easily in the Council chambers this morning – left them alone with the perfect opportunity to talk together, as surely he had known they would do. Once he would not have given the matter a second thought, as Gimli had not, as even Faramir had not, despite his warnings about the palantír.

Yet for all the concern the others had shown at Aragorn's apparent change of behavior – the refusal to discuss diplomatic terms, the insistence upon war, the near-paranoia in his talk of spies within their midst – still it seemed that they did not fully understand the magnitude of the King's transformation. Indeed Legolas himself wanted badly to believe that Elessar's departure were evidence of trust upon his part, that the King could leave his allies together in peace without suspicion of conspiracy or betrayal.

But it had been fewer than twelve hours since he had held Arwen in his arms and had heard her fears that echoed the warnings of his own heart. _I need someone I can trust_ . . . and the light had gleamed upon Aragorn's blade, and his eyes had been cold as mirrored glass. _One of those at the Council tomorrow will betray us_. Which one? Legolas wondered. Which of the King's friends did he suspect? Or did he suspect them all? _You can find them before they hurt us_. It was a test.

A test . . . of their loyalty, of their trust, of Legolas himself . . . it did not matter. And though his heart cried that Aragorn would not do this, would never do this, his mind remembered the flash of firelight upon steel, and felt the strange discord through their bond.

And so he waited. He would not seek out the King – some streak of Silvan stubbornness or perhaps his father's pride kept him from running to prove his loyalty as Elessar saw fit. But the King would find him, of that he was certain, and doubtless question him about the discussion following the Council meeting. And he would answer, and say that Aragorn's friends were loyal to him, and he would try again to reach Estel.

And all the time Elessar would be watching him, weighing his words against the meeting that he himself had certainly observed in some manner. Legolas rather doubted that he had in fact watched them through the palantír – Arwen had spoken of the tower, and there had been no time for Aragorn to go so far. But the King had once been a ranger, and was not limited to mystical methods of espionage.

Several birds had alighted in the upper branches of the chestnut tree that he was sitting in, chirping loudly as they squabbled amongst themselves. A red squirrel, thin and stringy after the long winter, poked cautiously along his branch and sniffed at his knee. Legolas sat quietly, and after a moment the squirrel apparently decided he was not a threat, and proceeded to ignore him as it climbed higher in search of tender shoots and buds to eat.

Legolas himself remained in the lower branches, perched just above the garden wall so that he could see the sweep of the city down to the Pelennor Fields. He had come to this, the Queen's Garden, in part because it sheltered the few trees in Minas Tirith that were old enough to climb. He had also hoped to speak with Arwen again: to tell her of the Council discussion and to seek her advice, and to reassure himself that she was unharmed following the confrontation with the King.

At some point he would also have to face Gimli. The Dwarf had been anything but pleased at his sudden exclusion from Aragorn's army, and soon he would lose patience with both Legolas and the King and begin demanding answers. But he had been pulled aside by Faramir to discuss the design for his renovation of the City's defenses, and that would doubtless keep them occupied for the better part of the day.

But that was just a short delay of the inevitable. Gimli would find him, eventually, for the Dwarf was nothing if not tenacious. And Legolas would find Arwen, if it meant he had to go again to her chambers, and he would speak to her, despite the King's order. But he would have to see Aragorn first. How strange, that he should feel such trepidation at the prospect.

So he waited, making no effort to conceal himself as he leaned back against the trunk of the nearly leafless tree, one knee pulled up to his chest and the other leg stretched along the branch in front of him. And while he remained alert for the sound of approaching footsteps, the coolly analytical part of his mind, that which had been honed and disciplined in service as warrior and captain of Mirkwood – that part of him stepped back, and considered, and remembered.

It had been a cool spring day much like this, and the soft breeze had played upon the tops of Eryn Galen's trees, when the Western border patrol had first found the signs that intruders had crossed the Enchanted River and entered Thranduil's realm. Those trees not yet wholly corrupted by the Shadow had murmured of strangers in their midst, and Legolas directed his warriors to investigate. A scout reported traces of mud upon the planks of the ferry, and fresh hoof prints in the soft earth at the near side of the river.

Three horses had been led from the riverbank and there were the tracks of a Man sunk into the mud. A little further on they found fibers of a lead rope caught in a thorn-bush near the path. Not Elven horses then, or at least not Wood-elven mounts, for Legolas knew that the Noldor of Imladris did use riding tack upon occasion.

He ordered his warriors into the trees, and they tracked the intruders for some miles into the forest, skirting the webs that clotted the branches here, at the outermost limits of the Elves' defenses. At least the strangers had enough sense to keep to the path that wound through the forest, and it was not long before the patrol caught up with them. Though the tracking Elves heard the party long before they saw them.

"You're making him nervous."

"I am not. It's this forest that's making him nervous."

"No, little brother. This forest is making you nervous, and you are making the horse nervous. Don't grip your reins so tightly."

"If I don't hold him back he'll bolt."

There were three voices, speaking Sindarin with a crisp Noldor accent. Legolas thought that he recognized two of them, and he could not quite repress a grin as he motioned his warriors to move faster, flanking the party on either side.

"He will not bolt. If you would just relax he will calm down."

"I am relaxed! It's the Morgoth-begotten horse that's upset!"

The canopy was thinner closer to the path, and a moment later the intruders came into view. There were indeed three of them, two with the fair features and bearing of the Eldar, and one Man-child who was clinging to his mount, a large chestnut gelding that pranced nervously from side to side, ears laid back and the whites of his eyes showing even in the gloom under the forest canopy. The boy riding him was clad in a jerkin and leggings of Elven make, with a long sword strapped to his saddle.

He had the long, lanky look of a child who has not yet reached his majority, but whose body is near adulthood. Drawing from his experience with the Men of Esgaroth, Legolas estimated him to be perhaps fifteen years of age as mortals reckoned them. His strong jaw was clenched, and his wide eyes mirrored the near panic of his horse as he pulled hard on the reins, drawing the animal in a tight circle.

The boy's companions were watching him with ill-disguised amusement. "You need to soothe him," one of them now said. "Talk to him."

"Sing to him," the other suggested.

"I am not singing to him," the boy ground out through gritted teeth.

"It'll help."

"No singing!"

"He's right, Elladan," one of the dark-haired lords now said, turning toward his companion with mock seriousness. "If he starts singing he'll bring every spider within twenty leagues down on top of us."

Silently Legolas signaled his second-in-command. The other Elf nodded and motioned to two other warriors on the opposite side of the path. They readied their bows, holding arrows nocked to the strings but not yet drawn.

The boy now had his horse facing the correct direction on the path. He pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and looked at his companions uncertainly. "Spiders?"

"Huge, giant spiders," the first lord said solemnly. "With legs as long as yours, and glistening red eyes, and fangs that –"

"You're making that up." The boy's voice sounded much less certain than his words. "There are no spiders."

"Look up, little brother. See the webbing?"

A pale face turned up toward them, and the watching Elves melted back into the canopy. The boy's eyes were huge in the darkness as he looked quickly from one shadowy tree to the next. "I . . . I don't believe you. It's dark. I don't see anything."

"Listen then. If you listen very, very carefully you can hear the creak of their carapace, right before they –"

Legolas timed his jump perfectly. Signaling the rest of the patrol to remain where they were, he dropped straight down in front of the small group of travelers.

Both the horse and the boy shied violently. Unfortunately, the horse jumped one way and the boy jumped to the other, and the result was that with a high shriek the boy fell off the horse and landed hard on his rump in the center of the path.

The sons of Elrond had swiftly recovered from their own surprise, but were now laughing so hard that they had difficulty controlling their horses. Legolas bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as well.

"It took you long enough," Elrohir gasped at last. "We've been riding for hours, waiting for the border patrol to find us. Sluffing off on the job are you, Legolas?"

"Hardly," he answered with as much disdain as he could manage. "We merely thought that such valiant warriors as yourselves would be without need of escort. But you are traveling in the wrong direction. The south of the forest is that way." He pointed off the path, straight toward the blackened heart of Dol Guldor.

The Man-child was scrambling to his feet, blushing furiously as he tried to brush the dirt from his clothes. Seeming to remember his manners, Elladan dismounted to perform introductions. "Lord Legolas," he began, "Pri –" a hard look was sufficient to make the Half-elven rethink his words. Thranduil was quite clear on the subject of protecting his sons' identity when away from the palace stronghold.

Elrohir filled in smoothly. "Legolas, captain of Mir –" another hard stare, but the younger twin merely smiled and continued blithely, "captain of Mirkwood, may we present our brother, Estel."

*~*~*

Footsteps. Legolas turned his head away from the gleam of light on the White City's rooftops, and looked over to see Aragorn approaching. The King paused for a moment on the threshold of the garden, lifting his face toward the light and smiling a little, as one who has not felt the sun upon his skin in far too long a time.

But a moment later he seemed to remember himself, and he crossed toward Legolas with a brisk, purposeful stride. "I might have known you would be here," he said upon reaching the Elf's tree. Legolas nodded, not taking his eyes from the Man. Aragorn spoke casually enough, but the archer marked the tension of his shoulders, the guarded looks that he cast toward the tops of the garden walls.

"I wonder, Legolas," the King now said, and the tone of his voice brooked no chance for disagreement, "if I might speak to you alone."


	8. Is This Love?

**A/N:** I've kept this chapter short, because it gets pretty intense. In fact I think that it DOES merit a mild warning. It contains scenes of consensual relations between husband and wife, nothing explicit, certainly well within the R rating of this story, but I think it's pretty clear what's going on. But more than that, it contains elements of psychological domination that are a bit disturbing. Read with caution.

"You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;

Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove

Into the glasses of your eyes…"

– John Donne, _The Canonization_

Chapter 7: Is This Love?

Arwen awoke early that morning. Indeed she woke before first cock crow, as happened more often than not these days, and scarcely made it to the chamber closet before the sickness took her.

Afterward she rested on the cool stone floor, gathering strength while she waited for the room to stop spinning. _Dear Yavannah,_ she thought dully, leaning her head back against the wall. _Is this normal?_

Then the smell of the enamel basin struck her, and she gagged. Pushing herself up, she groped for the door and then staggered across the darkened chambers to the water bowl that sat upon the dresser table. The large pitcher wobbled dangerously as she lifted it. The strength seemed to have gone from her limbs, and she had to steady it against the edge of the bowl as she poured the tepid water.

After bathing her face and hands she made her way slowly back to the rumpled bed and sank down on the edge with a weary sigh. _Dear Eru, was this what You intended, when You decreed that women would bring life into the world? And if so, what were You thinking?_

The darkness was beginning to lighten. The heavy curtains at the window were still tightly drawn – she had not dared to open them again, lest Elessar return – but a faint grey light was creeping in around them. Gradually the rich weave of their fabric was becoming visible, even as the individual shapes of the objects in the room took dim form.

Arwen resisted looking for a long moment. Determinedly she fixed her gaze upon the shadowed outlines of the water pitcher and bowl, the looming bulk of the heavy wardrobe and intricate carving on the backs of the chairs by the cold hearth. But at last she could delay no longer, and glanced back at the bed on which she sat.

One side, the side upon which she slept, was mussed, the pillows crumpled and the soft comforters thrown back where she had left them upon her hasty departure ten minutes before. The other side was untouched, smooth and empty save where her movements had pulled the sheets to one side.

The disappointment struck a hollow in her chest, and she quelled it with fierce determination. _Really it is for the best,_ she told herself, swallowing hard against the tightness in her throat. If Aragorn slept in their bed nights she could not possibly have hidden this sickness from him. She could not quite stop the thought – _if Aragorn slept here at night, there would be no need to hide it from him._

Closing her eyes, Arwen leaned forward and pressed the heels of her hands against the eyelids. She had heard the serving women occasionally discuss such things amongst themselves – who had been ill through the first five months of her term; who had labored three days in the birthing chamber; who had been delivered of twin boys whilst in the fields, and then had continued with the harvest. At times it seemed to her that the mortal women were engaging in a sort of competition as to who had suffered the most.

But she had never heard of such things amongst the Eldar. On occasion she had assisted her father in the healing chambers, particularly after her mother had left Middle-earth. And though children were rare in the Third Age, and none at all had been born in Imladris after the end of the Watchful Peace, still she had attended many births, and none had suffered as the women of Minas Tirith described.

But then, it had not been the women alone at those times. Their bond-mates had been with them, in the birthing chamber as well as all through the pregnancy. The connection between husband and wife deepened as time passed, she had been told, and extended even to include the unborn child. So it was that both parents gave their strength to their little one, the mother aided by the father, and together they helped the child grow until at last he was ready to come into the world.1

The birth itself was a time of rejoicing, with music and fresh flowers and greenery filling the healing wards with the scent of new life. And when the mother was at last brought to the birth stool she was supported in her husband's arms, cradled against him as together they welcomed their child, the child they had known and loved since first he was conceived.

Aragorn had not known when his child was conceived.

_He does not know?_ Legolas had asked, incredulous. As well he might be. Immortal life was not a gift given lightly by Ilúvatar, and the Eldar did not conceive without the conscious will of both mother and father.

It had been a point of some concern for Arwen, when first Aragorn had pledged his love to her in the glades of Imladris. But that worry had soon been swept away in the rush of new love, the certainty that here at last was the one she was destined to join, the one who completed her soul.

And then there had been the immediate need to keep her brothers from killing Aragorn when they found out. That, coupled with the hurt of her father's grief, and the understanding of what it would mean to join her fate to that of this Man, this mortal, had effectively driven all thoughts of children from her mind.

When she did think of it, during the long nights while he was gone deep into the Wild, she had not deemed it of much importance. After all, it was known that Men and Elves could bear children together – her own lineage was proof of that. She would simply take things as they came.

At times indeed it seemed that they would never have the chance to consider it, as the Shadow had stretched long over Middle-earth and the years darkened. She had clung to hope as an abstract then, believing for his sake and yet not daring to think of life beyond the War. And when they had come together at last, and she had held him, strong and whole and safe in her arms, and had known that the Shadow had fled and they need never again be parted, the joy had been too great. It was too great for thought beyond the bliss of that moment, of each moment that they were together.

And then he had changed. Again and again she tried to understand, to think back, to mark when it had happened. And again and again she failed.

It had been slow, at least she knew that much. Slow as the glacial coldness that crept into his bearing, steady as the thoughtful gaze he turned upon her, the relentless weighing of motive and trust, loyalty and love.

They did not speak of it. It was months before she fully understood that something was happening, and by then the silence had built into a wall that she could not break. Although she did try.

Time and again she had come to him, ready to speak, to cry, to demand that he open to her. And he would look up at her from the desk laden with parchment, or at the dining table with a dozen councilors crowded around, or caught halfway across their chambers on his way to a meeting or to the tower. And his cool grey eyes would pierce her, so that she felt herself laid open to his gaze, her secret fears bared for his consideration. He was judging her, she knew, weighing her love, searching for any sign of weakness, of betrayal.

And the words died on her lips.

But at other times he would come to her, and the cold regard would be replaced by heat, by an almost burning need for her. He would take her in his arms, and she felt him trembling as he buried his face in her hair. There were no words then, either. But there was aching desire to match her own longing, and in the fire of his touch she had felt the bond between them renewed.

Thus it had been on that night two months ago. She had not seen him in nearly a week, and when he first entered their chambers she had been hard pressed to conceal her anger. But he had come to her, and taking her hands had drawn her to him, and his face had been ashen grey with fear.

"Do you trust me," he had said, clutching at her, and his voice had cracked upon the words.

Arwen looked into his eyes, felt the near terror in him, the frantic need with which he held her, the threadbare restraint in his trembling muscles. "Yes," she said. "Yes, my love, yes. What –" _is wrong_, she had meant to finish, but he took her then, and once again there had been no words.

He had been desperate, for her love as much as for her touch, and she had surrendered to him utterly, trying to prove herself in this at least. And as he took she gave, and as he claimed she yielded, and he pulled her to him, burying himself in her, as though to make her part of him.

In that moment she had felt his _faer_ in harmony with hers, Ilúvatar's Song sung together in mortal key, and the bond she thought lost was made anew. Mind and body and spirit were one, two halves made whole, and joy filled her as with white light that rushed down every nerve and spilled out in ecstasy from her skin, a corona that surrounded them, her and her husband. And as he gave she took, and by what grace of the Eldar she yet had yielded, and opened to him as she never had before. He cried out, his voice joined with hers, she felt the spark kindled deep within her, and in their bond two souls became three.

Aragorn collapsed, shaking, across her and she held him close, scarcely able to believe what they had done. _It will be all right,_ she thought dazedly, in slow growing amazement. _It will be all right._ Whatever was wrong between them, whatever troubled Aragorn, they would face it together, and it would be all right. She knew it. They were one, and their child was a part of them – their child!

She sensed him, the new life deep within her, resonant with her and her husband's bond, and she nearly laughed aloud. For so long she had been uncertain, helpless as she watched Aragorn grow deeper in suspicion and doubt, and how foolish she had been! Tenderly she brushed a lock of her husband's hair away from his face. It would be all right. Whatever darkness plagued him, they would face it together, and they would triumph! In the pure joy of that moment, she thought that they could do anything.

Then Aragorn lifted himself on his forearms. He looked at her, and she returned his gaze, smiling into his eyes. She felt as if she were still glowing with the new life they had kindled – with a sort of reckless euphoria, she wondered if the sight might frighten the mortal servants.

Aragorn took her hand. Still looking into her eyes, he kissed the palm gently and then set it down, his fingers trailing lightly over her skin. "Do you love me?" he asked.

Arwen felt as if her happiness were a cup filled trembling to the brim – another drop and it would overflow. "Yes," she whispered, her voice gone soft with the depth of love she felt for him, for the child that he had given her.

Aragorn did not smile. He stared at her, his fingers tracing the contours of her face, the shape of her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. "Say it."

The smile froze on Arwen's lips. "I love you," she said. She tried to keep the uncertainty from her voice.

"Again." He moved closer. His breath was hot at the juncture of her neck, at the lobe of her ear. She tilted her head to the side, her heart pounding. "I love you, my lord."

"Again."

"I love you." Tears threatened, but she would not let them fall.

"Good." He sat back, looking into her eyes. His gaze was cool, piercing. He looked into her depths, but he did not see. She met his eyes, feeling the chill of the air upon her skin, the weight of dread creeping into her heart. He did not see. And in the cold light of his eyes, the bond that had been renewed withered.

Aragorn stroked back a tendril of her hair. "Love me," he whispered, resting his head against hers. His hand slipped to the back of her neck, holding her so that she could not move. "Love me, because you are mine."

And he was gone. A brief tug at the bedclothes, a shift of weight and the pulling of his night robe from the chair where it lay, and then the door opened, and she heard the click of heels as the guard outside saluted the King.

_You are mine._ And ice could burn as well as fire. It was then, as she sat alone in the rumpled bed, with arms wrapped around the new life within her, that she was first truly afraid.

A cock crowed, sharp and clear in the still morning. Arwen took a deep breath and straightened. The servants would be moving soon, and her own maids would come to bathe and dress her, and to clean the rooms. Today was the Council meeting, and there was much to do.

And so the Queen of Gondor arose, and wrapped her robe more tightly about herself, and went to clean the chamber pot, so that the servants would not talk.

*~*~*

It was early afternoon before Legolas left the garden. The conversation with Elessar had gone much as he had predicted, with equally predictable results. Again and again they had circled the same ground, debating the merits of Aragorn's plan and the underlying ramifications of the Council.

Under normal circumstances, it was a match that Legolas might have enjoyed. Aragorn had been raised by Elves, and he had more patience than most mortals for their games of word play and debate. Often they had passed the time that way while on long journeys together in the Wild – although Aragorn did not always realize it was a game until after Legolas had reduced him to incoherent sputters of frustration. But now the Man's natural wit was sharpened to a bitter edge, and there was a deadly purpose in his questions that reminded Legolas less of the old games and more of their fencing matches in Imladris and Eryn Galen.

"Éomer pledges eight thousand riders in a month's time. Think you he can deliver them, Legolas?" _Step right, ready position._

"He would not say it if it were not true, Aragorn." _Counter step, on guard._

"During the War the Rohirrim brought less than two thousand to the Gate." _Blade up, edge forward._

"There was much less time to summon them, my lord, and the nation was already weakened from the battles of Helm's Deep and Pelennor Fields. That is not the case now." _Block high._

"True. Why then do you think that Dol Amroth, which summoned three and a half thousand even after Pelennor, can spare so few now?" _Step, thrust._

"Think you their contribution small, Aragorn? Few could succor an army the likes of what you propose, and yet Imrahil promises supplies and water for your Men and horses to last them through the desert. And this while his Knights yet form the rearguard of your forces, and first defense of Gondor." _Block, return thrust._

"Perhaps you are right. Both Imrahil and Éomer have promised much." _Retreat, step right._

"They have long been allies of Gondor, my lord, and they trust you." _Press forward, blade level._

"Do they?" _Parry, circle._

"Of course, Aragorn." _Counter step, on guard._

"Do you?" _Attack._

"Yes." _Block._

"Ithilien sends no one." _Cut, drive low._

"Ithilien sends me." _Parry._

"For friendship." _Circle._

"Yes." _Circle._

"Say it." _Stop._

Stop. Legolas looked at him, standing quietly there upon the new grass with the sun casting tree-dappled shadows across his face, and hesitated. There was something strange in the way Aragorn had said that last, and his eyes were shining, fixed upon him, intense.

"Say it."

Legolas spoke slowly, without looking away. "I go with you, Aragorn, because you are my friend. If there is a threat to our peoples, my place is to defend them at your side."

The King drew a shaky breath. He paced forward, one foot deliberate before the other. "My friend."

Legolas did not attempt to disguise his impatience. "We have been over this before, Aragorn."

The Man did not falter. He was close now, and Legolas could see the fine beading of sweat upon his lip. "You trust me," Aragorn murmured.

Legolas frowned. There was purpose in this, he knew it, but it seemed madness. Suddenly he wished that he had simply clubbed Aragorn over the head and been done with it.

"I trust you."

Aragorn reached up and stroked back a tendril of Legolas' hair. "You love me."

And before Legolas could speak he stepped back, and was gone.

* * *

1 The bond between Elven parents and their child during pregnancy and birth is described by J.R.R. Tolkien in _Laws and Customs of the Eldar,_ Morgoth's Ring, the tenth volume of the History of Middle-earth.


	9. Smoke and Shadows

"No man can go through life

and reach the end unharmed.

Aye, trouble is now,

And trouble still to come."

– Aeschylus, _The Oresteia_

Chapter 8: Smoke and Shadows

Legolas made note of the direction that Aragorn took as he left the gardens, and waited until the King's footsteps had faded completely before taking a different path into the citadel. Their discussion had left him unsettled, and he had no wish to encounter the Man again any time soon.

_You love me_ . . . and that was true, just as everything Aragorn had asked of him was true. But never before had the Man required him to say it aloud; never before had he demanded proof of a friendship that should have been self-evident.

Why do so now? Legolas did not know. And of the myriad possibilities that occurred to him, he could not – he _could not_ – believe Aragorn capable of any of them.

Yet even so, he did not seek to follow the Man. More than the words he had spoken, more even than the touch of his hand that still burned like a brand at Legolas' temple, there had been darkness in Elessar's eyes. In them Legolas had seen a desire alien to everything he had ever known or believed of his friend: a longing to possess, to control, to _own_.

That Aragorn might be capable of that, or what reaction it might require of Legolas, was not something he could bear to think of now.

So he turned his mind and his steps deliberately away from the King, and focused instead upon the Queen. Arwen needed him. She had asked for his help, and though his initial attempts to reach Aragorn had failed, Legolas would not give in so easily. First he would find Arwen and make certain that she was well. And then perhaps together they might devise a way to bring Aragorn back to himself.

He was halfway to the stairs that led to the Royal Chambers when something else caught his attention. A smoky-sweet scent drifted through the stone passage, detectable even over the acrid smell of the torches. Legolas slowed his steps, frowning.

It had taken him a long time to adjust to what was, for Elven senses, the almost overpowering reek of a city of Men. Even the cold breeze from the sea could not wholly disperse the oily fumes of food cooking in a thousand hearths or the thick smoke of rubbish heaps burning in the lower circles. In the summer the smell of the stables and latrines alone was nearly unbearable. He had, through dint of sheer willpower, learned to ignore the stench during his visits to the city, though how Arwen bore it he did not know.

But this scent was different. Unique, not wholly unpleasant, and familiar . . . Legolas stopped just before the turn into the main corridor. _Pipeweed._

He hesitated, considering his options with lightning speed. To his knowledge there were at present two people in Minas Tirith who smoked the foul substance. Elessar had left the garden through the southwest passage into the citadel, heading toward the tower. He could not possibly have returned without Legolas hearing him.

Which left Gimli.

Legolas crept forward silently, pressing close against the cool stone of the wall. Careful to allow no shadow or glint of torchlight to give him away, he leaned out just far enough to see around the passage corner.

Gimli had positioned himself in a comfortable chair in the center of the main corridor, with a commanding view of the branching passages to the gardens, great hall, and guest rooms. There was no possible way that the Elf could get past without him knowing it.

Legolas allowed his head to thud gently back against the wall. Gimli had set an ambush. He had known that Gimli would demand answers for his behavior at the Council meeting, but he had not expected it to be so soon. He had been out-maneuvered, and grudgingly he conceded the first point to the Dwarf.

Well, there was no help for it now. Legolas straightened. He could either meet Gimli now, or slip away back to the gardens. Faced with the prospect of an irate Dwarf on one hand, and ignoble retreat on the other, Legolas briefly considered the feasibility of scaling the wall to Arwen's chambers from the outside.

It was doable, he decided, but perhaps not the wisest course of action at the moment. Aragorn was behaving strangely enough as it was: there was no reason to give him ground for additional suspicion.

Legolas took a deep breath. He had faced Orcs, spiders, wargs, múmakil, Nazgúl, and a Balrog, he reminded himself. He could handle one Dwarf.

*~*~*

Gimli sucked upon the stem of his pipe, eyeing his newest guard thoughtfully. The grizzled Man had replaced his previous guardian after the Council meeting, and had thus far proved to be the most tenacious of the Dwarf's watchers. With unflagging determination he had dogged Gimli's steps, undeterred by the long talk with Faramir, the brief exploration of the city's cisterns, or Gimli's luncheon discourse on the value of a clean water supply in the event of a siege.

Clearly more drastic action was called for. Gimli blew a series of short puffs in the guard's direction, and watched as his nostrils flared. _Aha._ He had arranged his seat here with the intention of catching Legolas when the Elf finally appeared from wherever it was that he had vanished to after the Council meeting. His pipe had been incidental to the plan, but now it seemed that the past-time was having an added benefit. After half an hour's exposure to the smoke, his guard was finally beginning to crack.

The Man's lips tightened as Gimli drew upon his pipe. They studied each other for a long moment. Silence. Gimli waited, apparently unconcerned. The Man's eyes were watering now. Gimli could see the faintest trembling in his hands. Finally the guard released an explosive breath, panting, just as Gimli blew a long stream of smoke at him. The Man coughed loudly, a hand at his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed and glaring balefully at the Dwarf. Gimli hid a smile. Really this was too easy. At least baiting Legolas gave him a challenge now and then.

As if summoned by the thought, at that moment the Elf rounded a corner and came striding up the hall toward them. Gimli blinked. _Well, it's about time, anyway._ And – yes, Legolas was coming from the direction of the gardens. _I knew it. It was that or the balconies again. Least I don't have to go climbing a ruddy tree after him._

Gimli blew a series of smoke rings, purely to see his guard flinch, and then turned his full attention on the Elf. Legolas glanced briefly at the soldier as he approached, and then seemed to ignore him completely. He stopped a short distance away from Gimli's chair and folded his arms, studying the Dwarf.

Gimli raised his eyebrows expectantly. Legolas spoke first. "I thought that you were meeting with Lord Faramir."

"Did you now," Gimli said.

There was a pause. Legolas' eyes narrowed. The embers of Gimli's pipe glowed red as he drew on it. Somewhere in the distance a servant's voice called a greeting, and a door slammed. Gimli blew a long plume of smoke.

Legolas did not so much as twitch. Gimli sighed. Of course the sodding Elf could hold his breath longer than a mortal, too.

"As a matter of fact," he said, getting to his feet, "I did meet with Faramir before the mid-day meal. Don't suppose you cared for that?"

Legolas shrugged. "Was it mid-day? I did not notice."

Gimli rolled his eyes. "Mahal grant me a friend who measures time in shorter increments than decades. Yes, it was mid-day, and now it is afternoon, and you are not getting off that easily. Come on."

"Come where?" Legolas asked, but he was already walking alongside the Dwarf.

"My room," Gimli said. "We need to talk, and you need to eat, and _he _–" he jerked his head toward the guard that was following them, "does not need to listen in. Let's go."

They walked in silence toward the guest chambers. Legolas seemed preoccupied, frowning to himself and chewing now and again at his lower lip. A tide of frustration rose within Gimli. There were a thousand questions that he longed to ask, but his lips were dammed to silence by the insufferable guard behind him.

It was with a sense of immense satisfaction that he at last ushered Legolas into his chamber and closed the heavy door behind them. Let the Man wait outside. Gimli didn't need him.

Legolas immediately crossed to the narrow windows at the southern wall. Their long draperies were tied back and pale sunlight was streaming in, making the room almost warm. Gimli snorted as the Elf threw open the sashes one by one.

"I wasn't going to smoke," he commented, knocking his pipe ashes into the hearth. A fire was laid there but not yet lit.

"The word of a Dwarf," Legolas said, swinging himself up to sit in the largest window's sill. "Even without your pipe this room is so close that I can hardly get my breath. _Why _you are so afraid of a little fresh air…"

"I have no objection at all to fresh air, and you know it," Gimli said. "Just because you like to keep all the windows open in the middle of a raging blizzard . . ."

He was bent over, feeling behind the deep green hangings of his bed. And – yes, the small covered bowl of fruit was still there. Gimli breathed a silent word of thanks to whichever harried chambermaid had been to busy to find and clear it away that morning.

He carried it over and pushed it at the Elf. "Eat that."

Legolas took the bowl purely out of reflex. "What blizzard?"

"Last winter, when I was trapped in Ithilien and all the roads were blocked –"

"That was in November, Gimli. It was just an autumnal squall."

"It snowed three feet! I had frost on my sheets!"

"There's no need to shout. The flets were warm, and the storm passed quickly enough."

"Three weeks is not quick. And I am not sleeping in a bloody tree-house every time I visit you. You built me that cottage on the ground for a reason, and I want shutters over my windows."

Legolas gave a quick, mischievous grin. "You already have them, elvellon. I had glass put in your windows and oak shutters made for your house after you left."

"_After _I –"

"The oak did not give permission before."

Gimli gave up. There was little point in trying to get the Elf to make sense once he started talking about his trees on an individual basis.

He sat back in a low armchair next to the hearth and watched as Legolas selected a small orange from the bowl. Gimli toyed with his empty pipe, rolling the polished stem between his fingers as he tried to think of a way to broach the real issue. After considering and discarding a few possibilities – _So, Legolas, had any staring matches with the King of Gondor recently? _– he decided on a direct approach. It generally worked best for him anyway.

"What's wrong with you?"

Legolas looked up, eyebrows raised. "I beg your pardon?"

Gimli rolled his eyes. He'd seen Legolas track an owl by the sound of its wing-beats at a quarter mile distance. Pretending not to hear him now . . . not only was it an obvious play for time, it was undignified. Mentally he marked another point against the Elf. Legolas was behind two to one, if he counted the standoff with the pipe, and the conversation had barely gotten started.

"I _said_, what's wrong with you? You practically rode Arod into the ground to get here last night, you've been avoiding me all day, and at the Council you were keyed up like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. So what's wrong?"

Legolas sighed. "I am sorry, Gimli. It was not my intention to avoid you. I have merely been . . . preoccupied."

"Uh huh." Gimli folded his arms. He had considerable experience now with the Elven ability to avoid giving a straight answer to even the simplest of questions, and he was not about to be put off so easily. "Is it this business about Aragorn and the palantír?"

A muscle jumped in Legolas' jaw. _Ah ha!_ Gimli thought. But Legolas looked away. "You were at the Council, elvellon," he said finally. "What do you think?"

"About Aragorn?" Gimli stroked his beard for a moment, considering. "He's worried about the Haradrim, of course, and wanting to get everyone organized and marching quickly. Mostly he looked like he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in about a month."

"Is that all?" Legolas turned back to face him, one eyebrow raised. "Did nothing else seem . . . strange . . . to you?"

"Other than the fact that he's got guards following me everywhere I go, that he wants to invade another country without even discussing terms first, and that you and he were staring at each other like you were about to go for one another's throats?" Gimli shrugged. "No, can't say I noticed much."

That surprised a laugh from Legolas, and Gimli smiled. Then, sobering, he looked more closely at his friend. "Do you think it is the palantír?" he asked.

The light seemed to fade from Legolas' face. He looked down, turning the orange over in his hands. "Perhaps," he said quietly. "Faramir at least believes so, and he has had some experience in these matters."

"He has," Gimli acknowledged. He tapped his empty pipe against his knee. "But so have we. And you know Aragorn better than he does. Do you really think that he could be influenced like that?"

Legolas' lips thinned. His long fingers were digging into the orange's surface, leaving small half-moon marks in its skin. "I . . . I do not know. Even a day ago I would have said no, but . . ."

"But what?"

Legolas sighed. "Something has to be making him act this way, elvellon." One pale hand came up to his temple and stroked back a tendril of hair behind his ear. Gimli could not quite recall seeing that mannerism in him before. "Aragorn would not do such things. If it is not the palantír, what else could it be?"

Gimli stood up. "Well then, it's easy enough to find out. We'll just take the palantír away from him, and see if he starts acting normally again."

"_What?_" Legolas was off the windowsill and across the room before Gimli had taken more than a step toward the door. He caught hold of his arm. "What are you _doing?_"

Gimli jerked his arm free. "I'm going to help my friend, Master Elf. Something's bothering Aragorn and no one seems to know what it is. So I'm going to find out."

Legolas circled quickly to face him, blocking his path. "And it's that easy, is it? You'll simply walk up to the King of Gondor, and never mind the guards around, just ask him to his face if he's gone mad or what, and while you're at it, might we take away the seeing stone that is his rightful possession as the heir of the high Kings and elf-friends of old?"

Gimli shrugged. "Something like that."

Legolas threw his hands up in the air. "Elbereth save me from thick-headed Dwarves! Has it occurred to you that this might _possibly _be a situation that requires something with a bit more finesse?"

Gimli was losing patience. "Why? This is _Aragorn_ we're talking about. He's your friend! What are you so afraid of?"

Legolas froze. It was a long moment before he spoke, and then his voice was very soft. "What if he isn't Aragorn, Gimli? What if he is so changed that when you speak to him, when you look at him, you see only a stranger? What if he treats you in a way that Aragorn, _your friend_, never would? Would you not then approach him with care?"

Gimli stared at him. "What are you saying?" He swallowed. "What has he done to you?"

Legolas shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "He has done nothing to me, and he will not. But I ask you, Gimli, please. Do not approach him until we know more of what has so affected him. Do not give yourself into his power so easily."

Gimli hesitated. Legolas was watching him, his eyes intent, almost pleading. "All right," he said at last, irritably. "I'll not confront him just yet. But what are you going to do?"

Legolas released a small breath, almost a sigh of relief. "I am going to stay with him. Perhaps, in time, I will be able to reach him, and he will be himself again."

Gimli snorted. "Oh yes, and that's a grand plan. You'll just hang about, 'giving yourself into his power' as you put it, and if you can't reach him, what then? You'll march off with him and this army into Harad?"

Legolas straightened. "If necessary."

"Right then." Gimli folded his arms across his chest. "Fine. But I'm coming with you."

"No."

"_No?_" For a moment Gimli could say nothing more, but stood with his mouth half open in dumb astonishment. Legolas did not answer. He turned away, wandering back toward the open window.

The shock was swiftly giving way to rage, and Gimli got his voice back. "What in Mahal's name do you mean, 'no'?" He followed the Elf, his fists clenched. "Of all the bloody arrogant, inconsiderate, spoiled stubborn block-headed stupid Elvish – since when do you give me orders?"

Legolas was staring out the window, over the city toward the flat plains that stretched away to the southwest. "It is not I who ordered it, Gimli. You gave your word to King Elessar that you would stay and fortify the city."

"Because you told me to!" Gimli roared. "I didn't know you were planning to go with him at the time! Of all the low-down dirty scheming dishonorable – you set me up!"

"I did not." Legolas' voice was quiet, in direct contrast to Gimli's fury. He seemed distracted, not looking at him. "I encouraged you to accept Aragorn's proposal because it seemed to me that you were right. The city cannot be left defenseless."

"You still knew that you were going to go with him," Gimli said bitterly. "And if you think for one moment that I'm going to just sit here and let you –"

Legolas interrupted. "The city is dark, elvellon. There is a cloud over it that hangs grey and close in the streets, and the shadow covers all."

Gimli blinked. He looked past the Elf, out the window. "Legolas, the sky is perfectly clear. The sun is shining."

Legolas did not seem to hear him. He continued in a low voice, his breath coming swift and shallow. "The river runs clear to the south, far away. The desert stars shine, yet the shadow blocks them. There is malice there, but it need not come by the river. It is already here."

"Legolas!" Gimli was starting to get frightened now. He poked the Elf sharply in the ribs. "Stop it!"

Legolas blinked and turned to look at him. The sun glinted gold on his hair, but his eyes were very dark. "Gimli?"

Gimli tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. "What has gotten into you? Since when do you have the Sight?"

Legolas raised an eyebrow questioningly. "I do not."

"Oh, of course!" Gimli snorted. "I should have realized! This is normal behavior for an Elf – try to have a serious conversation and he starts talking about the weather!"

Legolas smiled a little. "I was not discussing the weather outside the window, Gimli."

"No?" Gimli glared at him. "Then what was that about? You went off in some sort of, of trance or something –"

"Don't be absurd." Legolas looked briefly out the window and then back at Gimli. "I remember everything that I said. It was not a trance, or the Sight; it was merely an observation. There is darkness in this city, and malice. Elessar fears invasion from the south. But now I see that there is no need for it to come. It is already here."

*~*~*

Aragorn was tired. So very tired, and if he could only close his eyes for a moment, to rest, to think . . . but every time he did so, leaning his head forward upon his hands, he was jerked back to wakefulness by a sickening wave of vertigo.

It was that bloody palantír.

He glowered at it, as it sat heavy and dark upon the plain wooden boards of the table. There was nothing there, he told himself. Nothing. The palantír responded to his every wish, showed him whatever he desired of Middle-earth, from the quiet hills of the Shire to the emptied wasteland of Mordor. There was no force to resist him, no will set against his, as there had been when he faced Sauron. There was nothing.

And yet . . .

And yet the very process of using it forced him to open his own mind to it, to will it where he desired to go. He was vulnerable then, he knew, and even if there were none left who could master him, he did not like to be vulnerable. Too much depended on his strength.

It was at times like this, when his head ached and his eyes burned with weariness, that his mind wandered. He found himself thinking back over those people who depended upon him. Faramir, who served faithfully as Steward and yet always seemed to be watching him with guarded eyes, as though waiting for some hurt. Arwen, sitting framed in a darkened window. Legolas.

Legolas. The Elf had pledged his service at the Council, and yet no Elves of Ithilien would join him. This claim that the Orcs had attacked their settlement . . . hadn't he heard something about that before? A letter, a message written in flowing Elvish script, _regret to inform Your Majesty . . . no assistance required at this time . . . _had he used the palantír then, to verify that Legolas did have the situation controlled? He could not remember.

Legolas was a skilled captain and leader, but he had inherited a strong measure of his father's pride, and sometimes he would resist asking for help even when he needed it. An image: Legolas with his sleeve rolled up, swearing as he struggled to wrap a bandage around his arm one-handed. That had been a nasty scrape from an Orc blade, shallow and unclean, but the Elf had refused to let Aragorn even look at it. For two days they had argued about it as they made their way slowly back to Imladris, and only when the poison threatened to interfere with his bow hand had Legolas finally given in and permitted Aragorn to tend it.

He smiled, remembering that. He had learned several new Silvan curses on that trip, and two more in Quenya when he finally had to burn the infection out of Legolas' arm.

_He is willful._ Aragorn nodded in agreement with that thought, but did not lift his head from his hands. Perhaps he should use the palantír, check that the settlement was secure. Later. Later he would do that.

Valar, he was so tired.

_Can you trust him?_ Aragorn thought about that one for a bit. Using the palantír required such concentration that afterward he was left in a relaxed, almost fugue state. Thoughts came to him, ideas that he might not have otherwise considered. It had been unnerving, at first, but soon he grew used to it. Perhaps this was one of the benefits that the high Kings of old had experienced: the ability to view the people closest to them through impartial eyes.

Legolas had overstepped his bounds with Arwen, but Aragorn had ensured that that would not happen again. And the Elf had passed one test at least: his report of the lords' discussion after the Council rang true with what Aragorn had observed. Perhaps he was not as unswervingly loyal as Éomer, but neither was he as suspicious as Faramir. And Imrahil . . . but they would be taken care of. Arrangements were already being made for that.

Aragorn rubbed his hands over his eyes, trying to clear his head. He had been thinking about Legolas. He could trust Legolas.

_Can you be sure?_ Well, no. When he came right down to it, how could he be sure of anyone? Without control, there could be no certainty. Not even of Arwen, who looked at him now with fear as much as love and shrank beneath his touch. His hands tightened upon the table edge, remembering the feel of warm skin beneath him, the soft curve of flesh and the trip-hammer pulse against his lips. She did love him. She had said it.

_Is it enough?_ It did not matter. If it was not, if fear was necessary as well as love, well, that could be arranged.

_And this Elf of yours? What of him?_ Aragorn remembered the brush of hair beneath his fingers, smooth instead of curled, light instead of dark. Was it so very different? The clear eyes turned upon him, questioning, a faint frown drawn between the brows as the lips parted . . . no, it was not very different at all.

_There is the Dwarf._ Yes. He had feared at first that Gimli would upset the plan by coming too early, before he had prepared for him. But he had adapted, and now the balance had settled more perfectly than before.

He pushed back from the table and staggered a little as he gained his feet. But the dizziness soon passed, and he threw a cloth over the darkened palantír before leaving the room. There would be the dinner tonight, and he must see if he could speak to Faramir and Imrahil there.

The Council was over, and the lords had pledged their support. But to keep their loyalty – to keep Gondor safe – there was still much to be done.


	10. Things to Come

"For now we see as through a glass darkly,

then we shall see face to face.

Now I know in part; then I shall know fully…"

1 Corinthians 13:12

Chapter 9: Things to Come

Legolas did not come to the King's table that night. He was determined to speak with Arwen, though he would not say why. With typical stubbornness he simply stated that it was urgent, and refused to elaborate further.

Finally in exasperation Gimli gave it up. He was too hungry and too tired to match words with the Elf further this evening, but he vowed to pin Legolas down on the point some time in the future.

For now there was the immediate problem of getting to the Royal Chambers unobserved. After some discussion they agreed that the best opportunity would be while Aragorn was in the main hall for supper.

It took considerably longer to convince Gimli to let the Elf go alone. But at last he grudgingly conceded that someone had to keep watch on Aragorn and keep him away from the Royal Chambers while Legolas was there. In the absence of any other volunteers that task fell to the Dwarf.

At least there was a certain element of poetic justice to it, Gimli thought as his guard followed him into the great hall. The Man clearly enjoyed the Dwarf's company about as much as Gimli did his, but nevertheless he dogged his steps right up until Gimli was securely seated with Éomer and Imrahil at the high table.

The King of Rohan was looking considerably better than he had that morning. He greeted Gimli with a jovial smile and a tankard of ale. Gimli raised his eyebrows at that last, remembering the consequences of their indulgence the previous night. But any concerns on that score were put to rest as soon as he tasted it. Éomer was evidently taking no chances this evening, and the brew had all the potency of swamp water.

Imrahil laughed as Gimli shuddered and pushed his tankard away. "Perhaps you would prefer to try the wine, Master Dwarf. I think you'll find it more to your taste."

A serving girl came at the Prince's signal, and Gimli nodded his thanks to her as she poured a goblet full of the dark red liquid. He generally preferred something stronger, but long exposure to Legolas had worn down his resistance to new ideas.

He sniffed at skeptically at the new drink. It seemed innocuous enough. In the spirit of experimentation Gimli shrugged and took a healthy swig. His eyes widened as the rich fluid slid down his throat and ignited a pleasant warmth in his stomach. "It's Dorwinian!"

Faramir joined them in time to hear this. The Steward looked weary, with a seemingly permanent frown etched between his eyes. But he nodded as Gimli drained the rest of his goblet and reached for more. "Yes. I believe it was a part of last month's shipment from Esgaroth."

"Esgaroth?" Imrahil looked up. "That is no short distance."

Faramir shrugged and reached for his own goblet. "Lord Legolas arranged the trade. He keeps regular contact with Mirkwood – forgive me, I mean Eryn Lasgalen. The Elves frequently travel between their old home there and Ithilien; and they are willing to escort goods along the way. For a suitable fee, of course."

"Of course." Imrahil took another sip of his drink and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I wonder if they might be willing to extend their courier route to Dol Amroth. This wine is remarkable."

Éomer shrugged. "For my part I'll keep to ale, thank you. But you say that this shipment came last month? I thought that the snow had blocked the mountain passes."

Faramir smiled. "Another benefit of having Elves provide escort. What Men find insurmountable gives them little trouble: as I'm sure Lord Gimli can attest."

Gimli snorted at this, but his mind was not really on the conversation. He was thinking about what Imrahil had said, about the Elves traveling to Dol Amroth. That was all Legolas needed: a reason to come in regular contact with the sea. If ever there was a bad idea . . .

_Oh Mahal._ Dol Amroth. Aragorn was going to journey by the sea on his march to Harad. And if Legolas went with him . . .

But before he could continue that line of thought a hush fell over the crowded hall, and there was a general scraping of chairs and benches as the company rose to their feet. The King had arrived.

Gimli stood with the others and watched as Aragorn crossed to the carved wooden seat at the center of the high table. His chief concern, when he and Legolas had made this plan, had been that Arwen would come with Aragorn to the dinner. Legolas had been confident that she would not, though Gimli could not see what reason the Elf had to be so sure.

He had to concede now, however, that Legolas was right. Aragorn was alone.

The King came to his place but did not sit down. The musicians had stopped playing and now the whole company turned and faced west for a long moment in silence. Then Aragorn sat, and at his signal the others took their places as well. Éomer King sat at his right hand and Faramir took the place at the left, where the Queen might otherwise have been.

Prince Imrahil, seated across the table from them, raised an eyebrow. But no one else seemed to notice anything unusual, and no one commented on Arwen's absence as the minstrels struck up another song and the servants bore in loaded platters from the kitchens.

Aragorn looked around at them all with a smile that did not quite mask the heavy shadows under his eyes. "Welcome, my lords. I trust that you all have had a pleasant day?"

"A productive one, King Elessar," Faramir said. He used his eating knife to pull several slices of roast duck from a tray onto his plate. "Lord Gimli and I were reviewing the city's defenses. The outer wall is in good repair, but we feel it could be made higher, and a second level created for the archers."

"H'm." Aragorn waited until the serving maid had poured his wine and retreated before he spoke. "We re-opened the quarries in the foothills of the Ephel Duath two years ago. Supplying the stone will not be a problem, but we'll have to wait until the roads have dried further or the sledges will sink into the mud. How long will it take to complete?"

Gimli swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese. "If I had a team of Dwarves from Erebor here I could have it done in a month. As it is, with naught but Men about, and with waiting for the roads to dry . . ." he shrugged. "We can get the immediate area about the Gates done in six weeks, perhaps thirty meters on each side. I'll not want to go farther than that in any case until I've tested how the base supports will hold up under the extra weight."

Aragorn nodded and seemed to be about to say something else, but he stopped as another servant leaned in to set a tray of brandied jellies on the table. "Six weeks will be after the army departs," he said softly when the Man had left. "Think, Master Dwarf, and see if we cannot manage to complete it sooner."

Gimli opened his mouth to object, but Aragorn raised a hand. "I'll discuss this further with you and Lord Faramir at a more appropriate time. Now I would counsel you all to remember our words this morning."

He looked around at them all, meeting their eyes one by one, just as he had at the Council meeting. Gimli shut his mouth and sat back in his chair with his arms folded. _There is no knowing who else may be watching._

Aragorn seemed satisfied with their silent response. The tension eased from his shoulders as he turned his attention back to his plate. He reached for his eating knife, but then stopped. Frowning, he looked back up and down the table. "Where is Lord Legolas?"

Gimli choked on his wine. He had been expecting that question, but he wasn't prepared for it to be quite so sudden. He regained his breath to find the others looking at him expectantly.

"What?" he said, a bit more truculently than he meant to. "How should I know where he is? I'm not his nurse-maid."

"You do spend more time with him than the rest of us do," Imrahil pointed out reasonably. "It seems likely that you were the last to see him."

"Ah, right." Gimli flushed, remembering the excuse that Legolas had given him. "He, ah, he was going outside. The city, I mean. He wanted some fresh air. Shouldn't be back all night, I'd reckon."

It was a perfectly plausible explanation, and indeed typical behavior for a Wood-elf. Legolas had certainly done such things on previous visits to Minas Tirith. But Gimli found that he could not quite meet Aragorn's eyes as he said this, and his cheeks felt hot. However right the cause might be, he was still a Dwarf of Durin's line, and he had never before lied to a friend.

The frown line deepened between Aragorn's brows as he chewed at his lip. "He ought not to go out alone. It isn't safe."

Gimli shrugged, regaining his composure. "You're talking about an Elf who grew up in Mirkwood, Aragorn. Hunting giant spiders was probably his idea of fun as a lad. I doubt you'll have much success telling him when something is unsafe."

Aragorn's hand tightened upon his goblet. "All the same –"

Éomer interrupted. "He has a point, my lord. When I was a boy we used to race over the fields at harvest time and see who could jump his horse over the highest haystack. My father was forever telling us that we'd break a bone that way, but it didn't stop us."

Faramir laughed. "I remember Éowyn telling me about that. And you did break something, did you not, my lord?"

Éomer grinned. "Only my ankle. There was a difference of opinion about whether I could jump two haystacks at once. I thought that I could. My horse disagreed."

The others laughed. Éomer shrugged and drained the rest of his ale. "Ah well. I still bested Éowyn on the speed trials."

He set his mug down with a thump and looked at Faramir. "That reminds me, my lord: you had something to say about my lady Éowyn? Are the duties of Ithilien so great that she cannot spend a few months with her people in Meduseld?"

Faramir shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Er, no, it isn't that. It is an, ah, personal matter, my lord."

Gimli had been watching Aragorn closely as the conversation veered away, less interested in Éomer's miscreant youth than he was concerned about the King's reaction to his deception. But something in Faramir's manner seemed to have caught Aragorn's attention, for the brooding look cleared from his eyes and he turned to focus upon his Steward.

"Would you prefer that we discuss this matter elsewhere, Lord Faramir? We might retire to my office, if you think it better."

Faramir's gaze was fixed upon his plate as he toyed with his eating knife. "I . . . no, Your Majesty. It is nothing to do with the Council or . . . anything. It is only . . ." he glanced up. His cheeks were pink with embarrassment, but his eyes shone with a rare, almost defiant pride. "The lady Éowyn and I . . . that is, my lady Éowyn cannot command Meduseld as she is . . ." His voice trailed off and he looked down again. Very softly he finished, ". . . she is in delicate condition."

Gimli frowned as he tried to piece this disjointed sentence together. He rather thought he knew what Faramir meant, but he wished that Men were not so squeamish in talking about such things.

Éomer, however, had no such reservations. "A baby!" he shouted, and clapped his hands. "I'm going to be an uncle! Did you hear that? Faramir's going to be a father! Porter! I'm an uncle! Drinks for everyone!"

A roar of approval rose from the crowded hall. Faramir blushed harder than ever, but a small smile curved his lips. "Yes," he murmured, not looking up. "Yes, that is rather . . . that is what I meant."

Aragorn laughed and reached over to pat his Steward on the back. "Wonderful! My lord Faramir, you are to be congratulated. You must allow us to extend our best wishes to the lady Éowyn when she arrives."

Faramir looked up. "When she arrives, King Elessar?"

Aragorn nodded. He was still smiling, but there was a steely glint to his eye. "Yes. You know what dangers are brewing in Middle-earth." He lowered his voice as the servants circled around the tables, refilling everyone's cups. Gimli had to concentrate to hear his next words through the din of celebration around them. "Surely you do not mean to leave her unprotected while we are at war?"

Faramir met his gaze, frowning a little. "I . . . no, of course not, Your Majesty."

Aragorn continued, resting one hand on Faramir's shoulder. "She and the child must be kept safe. I know that you have guards at your estate in Ithilien . . ."

The color was fading from Faramir's cheeks. He swallowed. "The guards are well trained, but there is little fortification around the manor. It could not withstand a battle."

"No, of course not," Aragorn said. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Faramir looked down, his fingers digging into the finely embroidered cloth upon the table. It was a moment before he spoke. "If I might be so bold, King Elessar, I would beg this favor. With Your Majesty's permission, I would bring the lady Éowyn to Minas Tirith. For her safety and the child's…"

"For her safety," Aragorn agreed. He smiled again. "And the child's. We shall have the best midwives in Gondor to attend the lady, when her time comes." Faramir nodded, but did not speak.

Aragorn continued. "She and the child are of course welcome to stay in Minas Tirith for as long as necessary. Do not worry, Faramir. The arrangements are already made."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Faramir said dully. Aragorn leaned forward swiftly to give him the brother's kiss, once on each cheek. But as the King released him, and stood to lead a toast, Gimli kept his eyes fixed upon the Steward. Faramir looked shaken.

*~*~*

Arwen had known that ruling as Queen of Gondor and Arnor would not be easy. Even apart from the Doom that she had accepted to bond with Aragorn, there were the daily challenges of adapting to life in the city of Men, of gaining the trust of a people who had little experience with Elves, and of rebuilding a country torn by the ravages of war and long years under the Shadow of Mordor. She had known all this, had accepted it and defended her choice against the anguished recriminations of her father and brothers.

But no one had mentioned the boredom. No one had said a single word about the frustration of ruling in a land where women were relegated to the shadows, unseen save for the trophy appearance at a banquet or in the throne room. Not one person had spoken of the tedium of work, day after day spent weaving and sewing with the noble ladies of the court.

_And why should they?_ Arwen thought savagely as she stabbed with her needle at the fabric before her. _They are all _men_._ Her father might have foresight to warn her of her fate at Aragorn's side, of the grief to which she had bound herself as surely as spring must fade to winter. But of the daily life of a woman in Gondor's court? Of that Lord Elrond the Wise knew nothing.

The day crawled on interminably. The tapestry that they were working on grew no closer to completion, and the mortal women's company – which Arwen usually enjoyed – seemed now stifling and dull.

_The Council ended hours ago. Where is he?_

It was all she could do to speak normally, to laugh and talk of trivialities even as her stomach churned with anxiety. At every moment she expected to hear Elessar's step upon the threshold, almost hoped to hear it, for then at least she might learn what had happened at the meeting.

And every moment that he did not come increased the storm of fear and frustration within her.

The muscles of her back and neck were knotted with a tension that only added to her stomach's roil. The nausea of that morning had never really faded. The room was too close and too warm, and the women's chatter ran on and on, their faces blurring dizzily around her in the half-gloom of the shuttered windows.

Arwen closed her eyes as the world tilted.

"Queen Arwen? Is something wrong?"

She breathed deeply, trying to think past the cloying smoke and perfume. She focused upon the texture of cloth and wood under her hands as they gripped the armrests of her chair. Slowly the trembling left her limbs, and she forced back the bile in her throat.

"Your Majesty?"

She shook her head, wishing that they would leave her alone. If she could just have a moment to think . . . the world righted itself again. A hand touched her arm, and she opened her eyes. They were all looking at her.

Giving what she hoped was a reassuring smile, she said, "Pardon me, ladies. I . . ." she cast about for some excuse that they would believe. Remembering a mortal ailment of which Gilraen had occasionally complained, she finished, "It was merely a headache. Please, let us continue."

There was a murmuring of sympathy, and someone fetched a cup of mint tea to set at her side. Arwen sipped at it occasionally, trying to look unconcerned as the conversation resumed. A headache was acceptable, it seemed. But she must be careful. She dared not appear too fatigued, or too delicate, or . . . or too much of anything, really.

These women were her friends, as much as any mortal of this city could be. But if they suspected, if they guessed her condition . . . one word of congratulations, one concerned look or overly careful touch, and Elessar would know.

He was a healer trained by Lord Elrond, after all, and Arwen dared not discount his skills at observation and deduction even in matters of which most males were ignorant. Indeed at times she could scarcely believe that she had kept it from him this long, and thought that surely he must know. Perhaps he was merely playing with her, pretending that she had deceived him for reasons of his own. Perhaps it was another one of his tests.

Perhaps not. She did not know, and if she kept thinking in this way she would surely go mad. But she could not hide it forever. And if she failed to reach him before he found out, if Legolas could not bring him back in time . . .

"Queen Arwen?"

Arwen started. Her needle slipped, pricking sharply through a hole in her thimble. She hissed and dropped both needle and thimble as she put her finger in her mouth. "Yes, Kaimil?"

The maid was holding a dress that overflowed her arms in a cascade of lace and green ribbons. Arwen's throat grew tight as she recognized it. Aragorn had had it made for her as a gift for their first Yule in Gondor – the first Yule that they had spent together in twenty years.

Kaimil held it up like a shield, her round face a study in determination. "It is time to dress for the banquet, Your Majesty."

Arwen set her jaw and picked up her needle again. "Thank you, Kaimil. You may put that away. I am not attending the banquet tonight."

"But my lady –"

Arwen stared at the tapestry before her. Its colors blurred as tears pricked behind her eyelids, but with an effort she kept her voice even. "No. Thank you."

One of her ladies leaned forward. "Your Majesty, you must –"

"No!" Arwen took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm. "I would thank you, Lady Inalese, not to tell me what I must or must not do. I assure you that I know."

The woman was unperturbed. "I would not dream of it, my lady. I only meant that you must eat. You have had nothing since break-fast this morning."

Elbereth, food was the last thing she wanted. But she mustered a small smile. "Of course. Forgive me, I did not mean to be sharp."

She turned back to the maid, not looking at the dress she held. "Please send for a tray from the kitchens, Kaimil. I shall dine in my chambers."

The girl frowned. "But –"

Arwen stood abruptly, bringing the others to their feet. "Thank you all. I will not keep you from the banquet: please, go and enjoy yourselves. I will see you in the morning."

It was all she could do to keep still, smiling pleasantly as they bowed good night and slowly made their way out through the antechamber and past the sentries at the door. She caught Inalese's eye, and the grey-haired woman held back as the others left. Kaimil went last of all, trailing ribbons and shooting Arwen a disapproving look over her shoulder as she left.

When they were alone Arwen turned toward her. "Lady Inalese, would you be so kind as to convey my regrets to King Elessar? I fear that this headache is somewhat worse than I had thought."

Inalese bowed. "Yes, my lady." She paused then, casting Arwen a shrewd look. "If I may, you could use the time to rest, Your Majesty. You seem weary of late."

Arwen only nodded, numb, as the lady made her way out. The door clicked quietly shut behind her.

The food arrived in due time and sat cooling upon the side table as Arwen paced. Free at last of prying eyes, she strode back and forth across the chamber, her arms crossed tightly and her brows drawn in a deep frown.

_Where was he?_ Perhaps he had gone back to the Tower after the Council – yes, that would be very like him. Then had Legolas failed? And if so, why had he not at least sent word to her? Even if he could not get past the guards, he could send a message, a letter, _something. _He must know that she was waiting. Unless Aragorn had –

A sound, a breath and creak of boot leather too soft for mortal ears to hear, and she whirled to find him there, calmly watching her from the doorway.

"Legolas!"

She reached him in three strides, and he caught her, laughing at the force with which she hugged him. She clung to him, breathing his clean scent, feeling the warmth of him solid beneath her hands, his hair smooth against her cheek. He was safe. The knot inside her chest relaxed a little.

"Arwen?" his hands tightened upon her shoulders, pushing her back a little, so that he could look into her eyes. A crease was drawn between his dark brows as he studied her. "Are you well?" His voice lowered. "Last night . . ."

She met his gaze, feeling her smile fade. "I'm fine."

Legolas released a small breath and loosened his grip. He did not speak, but she saw the relief in his eyes.

He stepped away, taking in the cluttered room at a glance, the shrouded windows, the small fire, the chairs scattered about the half-sewn tapestry. Arwen watched him impatiently. She was desperate to ask him about the Council, and Aragorn, and if he had been able to talk to the King, but she knew that she would get nothing from him until he was satisfied that they were safe.

Mirkwood Elves really were impossible at times.

_Although_, she acknowledged, watching as he inspected the fireplace, _perhaps this time the suspicion is warranted._ A new thought struck her then, and she spoke aloud, "The guards! Legolas, how did you –"

He rose from the hearth and glanced at her, a distinctly mischievous glint to his eye. "Your guards, my lady, are well trained and very diligent. They saw a suspiciously cloaked figure near the Royal Chambers, and when he did not halt at their command, they set out at once in pursuit. Really they should be commended when they return."

With that he shrugged out of his cloak and went to investigate the window draperies. Arwen was still smiling at these words when Legolas straightened and abruptly threw back the heavy drapes with a swish and rattle of their wooden rings.

"Oh!" she cried, as he leaned forward and pushed the leaded window open, "No! Legolas, don't!"

He glanced at her in surprise, already settling himself upon the sill. "My lady?"

A sweet rush of cold air swept into the room, dispelling the smoke and making the candles flicker. Arwen stared at the sweep of clear sky visible beyond the window, colorless in the twilight. Already she could feel the song of the stars, close now though still cloaked by fading day.

She swallowed. "Elessar," she managed. "He will not . . . he has asked me to keep the draperies closed."

"Has he?" Legolas' lips thinned. "Then there is no need for concern. You have not opened them. I have. If he objects, he may take the matter up with me."

Arwen shook her head. "You don't understand. He –"

"Forgive me, my lady," Legolas interrupted. "I understand more than you know. And I will not permit you to be caged here in the dark, any more than I will permit –" He stopped.

He looked away, out over the city, and it was a moment before he continued more softly. "You need light and air, my lady Undómiel, now more than ever. Come, sit with me. There is much that we need to discuss."

Arwen hesitated, but the lure of the stars was greater than any of Aragorn's threats, spoken or implied. Slowly she came to stand at Legolas' side, and rested her hand on his shoulder as she looked past him toward the darkling sky.

They were thus in silence for a time, watching as the light faded and bats flitted over the city. Then Legolas spoke.

"Aragorn prepares for war."

The strength fled Arwen's legs, and she braced herself against him, listening through the roaring of her ears as he continued, telling her all that had happened at the Council and afterwards.

He finished, but it was a long moment before she could speak. Her mouth was dry. "How long?"

"A month at most. He will not delay longer, for fear of the desert summer."

_Logical,_ she thought. Aragorn always had been a skilled tactician. She considered that for a moment, reveling in the chance to speak openly at last. She was slowly beginning to understand the techniques that mortal women used: the subtle art of indirection and coy words with which they influenced their male counterparts. There was power there, she had discovered, considerably more than appeared to the unsuspecting eye. But their method was slow, and required tiresome flattery of the male ego.

For once it was a relief to speak directly with an Elf, as an equal. "And these armies he sees in the palantír? How does he know that they target Gondor?"

Legolas turned to look at her, his face grave. "It is possible that he has sensed some intention along with these visions. The palantír can convey some emotion, or cause it in the beholder: we have seen that much. Malice, fear, despair . . ." his hand closed upon hers, tightened.

"But more than that, I know it to be true. Whether it comes from the South as Aragorn believes or not, there is evil here." His dark eyes held hers, searching. "Your father chose the life of the Eldar. Can you not feel it?"

The first stars were kindling, their pale fire mirrored by the flare of torchlight upon the streets below. Arwen stood still, feeling Legolas' hand cool upon her own, the night air sharp in her lungs and the heat of the fire at her back. She thought of the suspicion in Aragorn's eyes, his hands upon her, the constant questioning, _Do you trust me? Do you love me?_

_And what would Elessar do,_ she thought, _if I said no?_

"Yes," she whispered. "I can feel it."

Legolas drew her close, and she sank down upon the sill with him. The stone was cold. She allowed her head to fall back against his chest, and his arms were strong as he held her, his hands clasped around her waist.

At that moment she did not care if anyone saw, did not care if Elessar found them. The long weight of fear and constant worry was lifted, and at last she could let the tears fall, silent as the night zephyrs that blew over them.

Legolas spoke, his breath warm against her ear. "If Aragorn goes to war, I will go with him."

Arwen kept her eyes fixed upon the distant stars. They shone clear in the dark sky, but their song was muted by shadow. And her father had chosen the life of the Eldar, and her mother was a daughter of Galadriel, and the Sight was in her blood.

"If Aragorn goes to war," she said, "we will lose him forever."


	11. The Way We Were

**A/N:** A bit of an interlude here, but I promise that it WILL be important for the later development of this story. In the meanwhile please enjoy, and mind the sub-plots. They can bite.

Then take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind,

Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves . . .

With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,

Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

- Bob Dylan, _Mr. Tambourine Man_

Chapter 10: The Way We Were

Legolas held Arwen close, his arms wrapped around her waist, offering what comfort he could by simply being with her. The sill upon which they sat was hard with the yet unyielding chill of winter, and the night breeze swept back mingled tendrils of their hair, but he knew that her trembling had nothing to do with the cold.

_We will lose him forever._

Already it had begun. He had seen it: the darkness in Aragorn's eyes, suspicion and fear that mirrored the shadow upon the city. Elessar's words like weapons, the touch of his hand like a brand.

_Forever._

The wind gusted through the streets of Minas Tirith. It whispered in the layered darkness of the empty passageways and ghosted icy fingers over the cobblestones. Distant voices muttered upon the air currents, snatches of words and phrases that teased Legolas' ears, memories patterned like frost upon the window glass.

He remembered a life far from the city of stone, in times past when duty and love and friendship seemed almost simple, or at least less confused.

_Legolas!_ He heard it clearly, Estel's voice rising distinct from the night chorus. _Legolas! Where have –_

– you been? I'm starving!"

Legolas grinned as he dropped a brace of partridges in the young Man's lap. "Are you? Good. You won't mind cleaning these for us, then."

Estel grimaced, but reached for his hunting knife. "Birds. You couldn't have found rabbits? I hate feathers."

Legolas shrugged, settling himself against a nearby tree trunk to watch. "You want rabbits, you can find them yourself. Right now we need these feathers. You're running short of arrows."

Estel muttered something; his head bent low over the bird he was plucking. Legolas raised an eyebrow. "It is not my fault that they were lost. I told you that your bow was too small to shoot through the spiders' carapace."

Estel snorted. "I was shooting _under _their carapace, Legolas. That's why I targeted the ones up in the trees."

"Oh." Legolas considered that for a moment. "Then you should work on your aim. Hitting _ungyl_1in the legs only annoys them."

Estel rolled his eyes. "Thank you, O Wise One. I killed just as many as you did, you know."

"Yes," Legolas agreed. "After the ones that you annoyed grabbed your bow away from you, you did very well. Perhaps in the future you should just use your sword from the beginning."

"Fine. I'll bravely fight the giant spiders hand to claw, and you can hide in the trees and shoot at them from a nice safe distance."

"Thank you. Could you perhaps also shout your name on occasion, so that I might distinguish you from them? In the confusion of battle, one grunting hairy creature is much like another."

Estel laughed and threw the second partridge at him. Legolas caught it reflexively, one-handed. "Just for that, you can clean the other bird, Master Elf. And you can keep the feathers, too."

Legolas smiled and bent to his task, efficiently stripping the carcass before him. Soon the birds were neatly roasting in a pan, and Legolas added some herbs and a few wild roots that he had found while hunting. He eyed the meal critically as Estel added tinder to their nearly smokeless fire.

The partridges were too small. They should have been heavy with the summer's bounty, for it was only Iavas,2 and the beeches were scarcely tinged with gold. Here at the western border of Eryn Galen they should have grown fat in peace.

But they had not. They were like the rest of the wildlife here: small and swift and cautious. Even the roots that he had found were thin and twisted, and many of the herbs withered upon their stalks.

He could feel the change creeping through the forest: the trees grown silent and wary, the air still and close around them. It was the same change that his father had sensed from the stronghold in the east, and it was the reason for this journey. But not even Thranduil had known the extent to which the Shadow of Dol Guldur had spread.

Legolas had seen three black squirrels since they had passed the border of the Elvenking's realm, and now spiders. Spiders here, only four days' journey from the King's stronghold! No, his father had not known that, and it was well that he did not. Had he known, Legolas would never have been permitted to travel without his guard, much less with Estel.

"_Yrch!_ Legolas, behind you!"

Legolas was instantly on his feet, whirling with blade drawn before Estel had finished the first word. But even as he did so he knew that it was wrong. He had sensed no change in the forest song, no sound or scent or feel of Orcs' approach. They could not possibly come so close without his knowledge.

And, indeed, there was nothing there. He froze half-crouched, poised for attack as he swiftly scanned their surroundings. The clearing was lit in soft colors of gold and green and brown. The trees were calm, their leaves rustling in the slight breeze overhead. A hawk called once in the distance. Nothing else stirred.

Legolas straightened and deliberately sheathed his knife before slowly turning to face the Man behind him. Estel was still seated on the ground, his arms comfortably circling his knees as he grinned up at the Elf.

"Supper's ready," he said, with an obvious attempt at innocence that did not fool Legolas in the slightest.

"So I see," Legolas said.

Estel speared one of the roasted partridges with his eating knife and dropped it onto a rough wooden plate. He scooped out half of the edible roots and added them to the dish, and then held it up toward the Elf. Legolas eyed the offering coolly and made no effort to accept it.

"Oh, just take it," Estel said. "It was your own fault anyway – I called you three times but you didn't answer. I was only trying to get your attention."

"It worked," Legolas said shortly. He folded his arms and directed a piercing stare at the young Man.

The effort was wasted, however, for Estel merely shrugged and withdrew the plate. "Fine then," he said. "Starve. More for me this way, anyway."

Legolas sighed and sank down cross-legged as Estel began to eat his food with quick, determined strokes of his knife. He briefly contemplated refusing to eat as a form of subtle rebuke, but soon discarded that idea. Estel was still growing – already his shoulders were broader than Legolas', and his lanky frame had yet to fill out – and he was perfectly capable of eating the whole of their scanty meal himself. And subtlety had never worked all that well with the young Man in any case.

Estel glanced up from his plate as Legolas helped himself to the remaining partridge and roots. "Wut uhs o iphtractin enneeai?"

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "Is that the way they make dinner conversation in Imladris these days?"

Estel rolled his eyes, chewed, swallowed, and repeated, "What was so distracting, anyway?"

Legolas looked down, toying with his knife. "This forest," he said. "It is too quiet, and the trees are . . . unsettled. There is darkness here."

Estel frowned. "You think that it is the Shadow?"

Legolas shrugged. "Perhaps. The _ungyl _should never have been able to cross the Forest River, and yet they have done so."

"But there were no webs. They hadn't been here long, and we killed them."

"They will return. When once the agents of the Enemy gain a foothold in our land, they never stop trying to come back."

Estel set his empty plate aside and began to clean his eating knife. "So what do we do?"

Legolas smiled. He knew that Estel was considered cautious for a Man, but in comparison to many Elves he was quick to act, and had little patience for drawn-out discussion. It was an approach that Thranduil would have appreciated, but at times Legolas wondered what the Noldor of Imladris thought about it.

"We go home, where I will report what we have found and ask the King's permission to lead a patrol to clean the forest."

"Right." Estel slipped his eating knife into the holder at his belt and stood up. "You do that. Meanwhile I'll scout toward the south and see what I can scare up."

Legolas inhaled so quickly that he choked on his root vegetable. "_What?_"

Estel was obviously trying to act nonchalant as he gathered up the roasting pan and plate to wash. "You heard me."

Legolas set down his unfinished meal and stood up. "I heard you. I simply did not believe you. Even you could not be so foolish as to go wandering through Eryn Galen –"

"You mean Mirkwood."

Legolas glared at him. "– through _Eryn Galen _alone. Your father would kill you if he found out, assuming that the spiders or wargs didn't get you first. And then he would kill me for letting you go."

"My father!" Estel laughed shortly, but there was no mirth in it. "Oh yes, my father."

Legolas frowned. "What about him?"

Estel straightened, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes and casting Legolas a defiant look. "My father is _dead_, Legolas. He died a long time ago. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

Legolas breathed out softly. "Arathorn."

"Yes." Estel's eyes were very bright. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Lord Elrond is no more my father than he is yours."

_He knows._ Legolas shook his head and focused on the immediate issue. "Lord Elrond adopted you. He raised you as a son, and he loves you."

"Right." Estel looked away. "You know that story. I guess everyone knows, except that they never bothered to tell _me._"

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me, but I fail to see where you were misled. You knew that you were not of Elven-kind. Who did you think your father was?"

"I don't know." Estel sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I suppose . . . I did know, really, that I was different. It was just . . . as a child, I guess I didn't think about it. It was just the way things were. And then when I got home and he told me like that . . ."

"Ah." Several things clicked into place. Legolas had wondered at his friend's sudden return to Eryn Galen so soon after their long journey together with the sons of Elrond. He had parted company with Estel and the Twins at the western mountain pass, and had not expected to see them again until spring.

He had still been on leave at home when the border patrol reported the young Man's entrance into the forest, riding hard and alone. He had insisted upon seeing Legolas, but refused to discuss the details of why he had left Imladris. Until now.

"I know that it is a lot to accept."

Estel snorted. "That's one way of putting it. Along those same lines, you could also say that Fëanor had a mild liking for pretty jewelry. Can I show you something?"

Legolas nodded. Estel crossed over to his pack and rummaged in its depths, setting aside a great variety of weapons and hunting gear before at last drawing out a long, narrow object wrapped in leather. Carefully he undid the binding, and the leather wrap fell aside to reveal a beautifully wrought sword-hilt, its black handle inlaid with Elven runes. The blade was straight and razor sharp, but snapped short only a foot from the hilt.

Legolas gasped and dropped to one knee, looking intently at the broken sword. "Is that –"

Estel nodded. "The Shards of Narsil – or one of them, anyway. The sword that cut the Ring from Sauron's hand, carried by the Heir of Isil–"

"Hsh!" Legolas cut him off in the most effective way he knew – in a single swift motion he leaned forward and covered the young Man's mouth with his hand. Estel gave a single muffled "Mmph!" and was still, looking at him with wide eyes.

"Did Lord Elrond teach you nothing?" Legolas hissed. "Will you throw away twenty years of secrecy by talking about that here?"

Estel scowled at him, but made no effort to escape. After a moment Legolas released him and sat back on his heels. Bright spots of color flared high on the young Man's cheeks. "You needn't have done that. I am not a child," he snapped, wrapping up the sword again.

"No?" Legolas said. "You do an excellent impression of one."

"Fa – Lord Elrond trusts me. He gave me the Shards because he knows that I am worthy of them."

"So you carry them around with you?" Legolas was incredulous. "Do you _really _think that is what he intended?"

Estel shrugged, his jaw set in a line that Legolas recognized immediately. There was no point in discussing it further: the Man's mind was made up.

He sighed and cast around for a different approach. "We can put them in the treasury when we get home. They'll be safe there until you return to Imladris."

"No."

Legolas repressed a groan. "'No,' _what?_"

"No, 'we' will not put them in the treasury, because 'we' are not going back to the stronghold. I told you. I'm going to scout to the south."

Legolas ground his teeth. "And I told you, your father – _Lord Elrond _– would kill you. Or the wargs and spiders would kill you. In which case your father would resurrect you and kill you again. And that is too much trouble for _me _to deal with. You can come with the patrol after we report to the King."

Estel got to his feet. "Your father would never let me go on patrol with you, and you know it. He hates me."

Legolas stood abruptly. "That is not true. He does not 'hate' you."

Estel shook his head. "Perhaps that's the wrong word. He . . . doesn't trust me. He never has." The young Man looked away. "The only difference is, now I know why."

Legolas sighed. The truth was that Thranduil trusted few Men, and the line of Isildur not at all. He tolerated Legolas' friendship with Estel for much the same reason that he gave aid and protection to the Men of Laketown and Dale. It was simply necessary: for as they fought on the darkest front of the Long Defeat, the Elves of Eryn Galen could not afford to alienate their allies, regardless of personal suspicion or bias.

But Thranduil had lost his father and two eldest sons in the Last Alliance. Two-thirds of Oropher's forces had died in that last, desperate battle to save Middle-earth, and there was not a family in Eryn Galen who had not lost someone to the Enemy. And at the last their sacrifice had been made meaningless, their victory made worthless, by the treachery of Isildur. The treachery of Estel's forefather.

At what point did one let go of the past? Elven memory did not fade with time, and Legolas knew that for his father, the hurt of that betrayal was as fresh and sharp as the Dwarves' sacking of Doriath, or the grief for a warrior killed only last week. The Elves of Mirkwood were known to be mistrusting of outsiders, and Thranduil himself had become the stuff of legend in Middle-earth – a distinction that he rather enjoyed. But if any people had a right to that innate suspicion, it was they.

Legolas was different. Whether by virtue of his youth or simply his personality, he tended to be more open, more accepting than the others of his people. Thranduil had been quick to recognize this talent in his youngest son, and applied it where it would be of greatest use to the Woodland Realm. So it was that Legolas found himself most often assigned as representative of the King in Erebor or Imladris, and even his friendship with the twin sons of Elrond was encouraged.

Estel was another matter. Thranduil wanted nothing to do with the line that Elrond fostered, and he had long forbidden his sons from contact with the Heir of Isildur. Perhaps it was that which had piqued Legolas' curiosity. But for whatever reason, this one was different. In the few years since their first meeting upon the path in Eryn Galen, Legolas had come to trust Estel. He was young, even as Legolas was young, and still occasionally given to fits of childish temper or recklessness. But he was also brave, and intelligent, and a good friend.

And now he was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur and of the throne of Gondor.

"What should I call you?"

Estel looked up. "What?"

Legolas gestured toward him. "Now that you know, and you have the Shards – literally, in this case – how shall I address you? Estel? Aragorn? Your Majesty?"

Estel groaned and sat down, putting his head in his hands. "I don't know. Aragorn, I suppose. It sounds bizarre, doesn't it? Aragorn. Like something you would call a horse. Ara – goooorrn."

Legolas laughed. "Well, come along then, 'Aragorn.' There is still an hour before dusk, and we can cover another few miles south before we camp, provided that the new Aragorn isn't as lazy as the old Estel."

Estel – Aragorn – lifted his head. "South?"

Legolas nodded. "Far be it for me to command the future King of Men. If you will not return with me to the stronghold, then I have no choice but to go with you to the south. Someone has to keep an eye on you, after all."

Estel snorted, but began to gather his pack together. "Your father will not be happy."

Legolas shrugged. "I'm still on leave. This was strictly a volunteer mission, you know. I'm simply volunteering to extend it a bit further." Indeed that had been the reason that Legolas had been able to take the young Man with him in the first place – for though the Elvenking did not hesitate to make his disapproval known, he also respected his adult sons' choices in their personal lives. Legolas had always been very careful that his friendship with Estel did not interfere with his duties to the Woodland Realm.

Legolas gathered the feathers from the birds that they had eaten, quickly sorting them into the brown and black flight pillions that could be used for arrow fletching, and the smaller down feathers which would be saved for stuffing pillows or quilts back home. The bones and his own leftovers he packed separately, for stock in tomorrow's soup.

Estel smothered the fire, carefully burying it so that it did not smoke. Legolas watched approvingly – the Man always had had a knack for woodland craft. "You'll do well with the Rangers, at least," he commented.

Estel did not look up. "So Elrohir claims," he said. "Patrolling with a group of Men, though . . . I'm not looking forward to that."

Legolas smiled sympathetically. "Perhaps it won't be so bad. You are going to be their chief, after all."

Estel finished with the fire and walked over to join him, scanning the site to ensure that no trace of their presence remained. "I don't think we should mention that. Father did say it's still meant to be a secret."

"Right." Legolas eyed him thoughtfully. "Well, your appearance is certainly scruffy enough, and with that smell I don't think anyone will suspect your true identity."

He ducked as Estel aimed a half-hearted swipe at his head and then continued unconcernedly, adjusting the straps of his quiver and pack. "But you may have some trouble if you go about introducing yourself as 'king of valor.'3 I think you need another name."

Estel's sword was already buckled at his waist, and his hunting bow and quiver were secured to his pack. He shouldered it and shook his hair back from his eyes. "Well, 'hope' isn't much better.4 What about an Elven name? I've always liked Elven names, as long as it isn't something silly like 'green leaf.'"5

Legolas snorted and set off, leading the way south from the clearing. "I think we should choose something more descriptive of the bearer. 'Man-who-smells-like-an-Orc,' now that would at least be accurate."

He didn't even bother to block when Estel punched his shoulder. And as his friend laughed, and fell in to walk alongside him, Legolas could almost forget the silent trees that knotted their branches overhead, and the darkness that closed around them as they traveled south.

*~*~*

_If Aragorn goes to war, we will lose him forever._

Legolas breathed deeply of the night air, trying to steady himself. So little time had passed since that autumn evening when Estel had confided in him. It had been seventy years . . . an eye-blink of time, for an Elf.

But for a Man, it was so much more. And how would Aragorn – how would _Elessar _– react now were he to tease him, and joke as they had done when they both were young? In the cold whistle of the wind Legolas seemed to hear the rasp of steel, and he remembered Aragorn's grey eyes like winter ice. "_What would you give, Legolas?"_

The shadow was winning. They had driven Sauron from Dol Guldur and hounded the Enemy even to the Black Gates, and Isildur's Heir had lead the armies of the West, and witnessed the destruction of the Ring, and the final rectification of that ancient treachery, and it was not enough.

It was not enough. Legolas saw the darkness growing in Aragorn's eyes, and whatever he could give, whatever sacrifice he might make, it might still not be enough.

The Man who Legolas had known, who Arwen had cleaved to, who they both had loved, would be gone. Legolas would lose the one for whom he had sworn to stay in Middle-earth. Arwen would be bound to a mortal fate with her husband in a stranger's guise. And Aragorn . . . the noble, strong, kind, stubborn, occasionally maddening friend who Legolas loved more deeply than a brother . . . Aragorn would be gone.

_It will not happen._

Legolas fixed his gaze upon the stars. With the deepening of night their song had become clearer: muted but still stronger than the shadow. Earendil sailed bright over the western hills, but Legolas did not seek him out. The legends of the Noldor held little sway over the Silvan Elves, and Thranduil's people had fought long years without recourse to divine intervention.

But the Star-kindler was theirs, and Legolas swore by the light of Elbereth: _This darkness will not take him. I will not let it._

Arwen was daughter's daughter of Galadriel, and she had the Sight. But Legolas was a Prince of Eryn Galen, and had fought all his life against an Enemy that led those with Sight to despair, and he had seen that Enemy fall.

If he could save Aragorn in time to stop this war, he would. But if he could not, and Aragorn marched to battle, then Legolas would go with him. And he would save him nonetheless.

* * *

1 _Ungyl_: Spiders, plural of _ungol_.

2 _Iavas_: Sindarin, early autumn.

3 _Aragorn_: From _ara_, the shortened form of _aran_, lord or king, and _gorn_, valor.

4 _Estel_: Hope. The name given to Aragorn upon his fostering in Rivendell.

5 _Legolas_: Green leaf. But you already knew that.


	12. Caught

"Acts of injustice done

Between the setting and the rising sun,

In history lie like bones, each one."

W.H. Auden, _The Ascent of F.6_

Chapter 11: Caught

"We must speak to him," Legolas said.

Arwen stirred a little in his arms, but kept her gaze fixed upon the stars. "I have tried," she said. "He will not listen. And if you question him, if you give him cause to suspect you . . ."

"He is not inclined to be reasonable," Legolas finished dryly. "So I have seen. But what other choice have we, my lady? I will not simply sit and watch him fall."

"No," Arwen said. She pulled away from him and stood, pushing her hands into the loosened mass of her hair. "You must keep trying, Legolas. We both must. What else can we do?"

Legolas shook his head, turning upon the windowsill to look at her. "There is no time, my lady! Aragorn marches to war within the month. He trusts me, so he asks me to spy upon his friends, to tell him which of them will betray him! I will stay with him, as you ask, but that alone will not be enough. We have to remind him of what he once was."

Arwen paced across the cluttered sitting room, rubbing her temples as she tried to think. "You said that Faramir was beginning to suspect. Could he help us? Perhaps he could delay the mustering of Gondor's army, keep back the messengers long enough for us to reach Estel."

"Perhaps," Legolas conceded. "At least it might give time for Imrahil's spies to report if this threat from the Haradrim is real." He sighed. "I'm beginning to think that Gimli's plan might be best after all."

Arwen looked back toward him, her eyebrows raised. "Gimli's plan?"

Legolas smiled. "He was going to steal Aragorn's palan–" he cut off in mid-word and straightened, frowning. "Do you hear that?"

Arwen turned to follow his gaze out to the antechamber, to the heavy door at the entrance of the Royal Chambers. Very faintly she could hear the thump of boots in the hall outside, and the murmur of approaching voices.

Her breath caught. "He is coming."

*~*~*

Down in the great hall things were beginning to get out of hand. Éomer had long ago abandoned his weak ale for a brew so potent that the mere fumes made Gimli's eyes water. The King of Rohan was then swept off by a large crowd of young noblemen, and the last Gimli saw of him he was up on the musicians' platform in the center of the hall, trying to teach the minstrels a Rohirric dance tune.

The long wooden trestles were pushed back against the walls, and with a great deal of laughter and shouting of conflicting advice the Gondorian nobles joined in a quick-step reel that thumped upon the stone floor and shook dust from the tapestries overhead. Gimli was strongly tempted to join them, but remembered his promise to Legolas and stayed at the high table by Aragorn's side, watching the celebration with no small regret.

Faramir also remained in his chair, though he was so surrounded by well-wishers that Gimli could hardly see him. He thought at times that the Steward was trying to catch Aragorn's eye, but the noise and press of people were such that he could not be sure. In any case Faramir soon gave up the attempt, and seemed to resign himself to the task of greeting the congratulatory throng around him.

Gimli idly tapped his fingers on the table in time with the music and wished for a refill of his wine. His throat was dry and his voice hoarse from all the cheering. But the wine had been the first thing to run out, and he had been unable to catch a servant's eye amidst the surrounding revelry.

He finally got a drink from a jug of water set near the foot of the table, and was just draining it when Aragorn rose to his feet. The few others scattered around the table stood up as well, but when Faramir attempted to do so the King leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. Gimli could not hear what he said, but Aragorn was smiling and Faramir, looking up at him, nodded.

Then Aragorn stepped back, and lifting a hand to the other guests he slipped away through the King's Door at the head of the great hall. Gimli set out at once in pursuit. He had hardly passed through the archway, however, when a Man's deep voice called "Halt!" and a large hand clamped down upon his shoulder.

Gimli sighed in exasperation. He glared up at the massive guard who held him, but with what he felt to be admirable self-control refrained from knocking the Man unconscious. Aragorn, a few paces farther down the corridor, stopped and turned back toward them.

"Gimli?"

Gimli started to answer, but the guard spoke first. He bobbed his head in an awkward half-bow, his thick fingers digging into Gimli's clavicle. "King Elessar, he didn't mean anything by it. I expect he was just turned around and got lost."

Gimli snorted at this, but Aragorn gave a small smile. "Grodan, Lord Gimli oversaw the rebuilding of this citadel. He would no more get lost here than you would in your own home." He looked at Gimli directly. "Did you wish to see me, Master Dwarf?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Gimli said. He started forward, but the guard was still hanging on to his shoulder. With an impatient motion he brushed the Man off and kept going. "You know, we haven't had much chance to talk recently, Aragorn."

Aragorn signaled the guard and turned, allowing Gimli to fall in beside him as they walked down the passage. "Was there something in particular that you wished to talk about?"

Gimli blinked. In past visits he had often stayed up with Aragorn, talking about anything and nothing into the late hours when the smoke of their pipes had driven Legolas from the room. They had never before needed a _reason _for it. "Yes. Uh, the city gates. We'll need to, um, reinforce them. I was thinking of putting iron cross-work in back of them so that they won't be so easy to break down."

"I see." Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "I would question whether they were 'easy' to break down the first time, but no matter. It's a good idea. I suggest you talk to Faramir about it in the morning."

"No, I – wait!" They were crossing the main corridor toward the staircase now, and the guards at the foot of the stair snapped to attention as they approached. Gimli hurried to match pace with Aragorn. "Where are you going?"

"To my chambers, Master Dwarf. I am tired."

He looked it, Gimli thought, glancing up at the King. Aragorn's face was thin and grey with fatigue, and the deep circles under his eyes gave evidence to long nights of strain without rest. Gimli felt a pang of sympathy for his friend. But he could not let him go so easily.

"But it's early! How about you come to my room, have a nightcap?"

Aragorn was climbing the stairs, not looking at him. "Perhaps tomorrow, Gimli. Goodnight."

"But, but –" They were at the second level, heading toward the third. For all his weariness, Aragorn still took the stairs two at a time, and Gimli was breathing hard as he kept up. "What about the guard?"

Aragorn paused at the head of the stair. "What about him?"

Gimli could see the heavy door to the Royal Chambers not twenty paces away, the two guards standing to attention outside it. He tried not to look too obviously at it as he raised his voice. "There's been one Man or another following me around ever since I arrived, Aragorn. I can't take two steps without tripping over them, and I'm tired of it."

Aragorn glanced briefly at the guard who waited a few steps back on the stairs, and lowered his voice. "Gimli, you were at the Council. You know the dangers that we face."

"I'm not talking about that, _Aragorn,_" Gimli said loudly. He hoped that the Elf's hearing was up to its usual standard. Aragorn was moving toward the door, and he followed, scuffing his boots as noisily as he could over the stone floor. "Anyway, I don't see anyone else getting the special escort. _Legolas _doesn't have guards on him." He shot another surreptitious look toward the Royal Chambers.

Aragorn stared at him, his eyes narrowing, and then he glanced back toward the closed door. "Doesn't he?" he said slowly. "Perhaps that situation might be rectified . . . where did you say Legolas was again, Gimli?"

*~*~*

Legolas had used all the authority and every ounce of charm that he possessed, and nothing worked. He was now completely stymied, frustrated and exasperated as he had rarely been before, but determined not to give up. He set his jaw and tried another, rarely used approach: begging. "Arwen, _please._"

The Queen glared at him, her arms crossed over her chest. "No."

Legolas took a half step to the left, to go around her. She moved with him, keeping between him and the chamber door. He stopped, poised unconsciously on the balls of his feet as he faced her. "We do not have _time _for this!"

"Exactly!" Arwen shot back. "You have to get out of here, Legolas!"

His voice dropped into a low, dangerous whisper. "I am a warrior of Eryn Galen, lady, and Aragorn is my friend. I will not run from him, and I will not abandon you to face him alone. He needs me."

"You young idiot!" Arwen hissed. "If he finds you here, he won't listen! He won't care about your friendship! You've disobeyed him, and for that alone he will lock you in the dungeons, if he doesn't hang you for espionage! If you want to help him, Legolas, you cannot let him find you here!"

*~*~*

"Outside the city," Aragorn mused. He was less than a foot from the chamber door, half-turned toward Gimli. "Yes, so you said." The lines around his eyes creased a little deeper as he frowned. "Does it seem odd to you, Gimli, that he should leave so soon after he had arrived? Especially when he said nothing to me about it?"

Gimli opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. Aragorn continued, his voice now very soft. "And now you have come chasing after me to my very doorstep, shouting about matters that could easily be left until the morrow. Does that seem strange to you, Master Dwarf?"

Gimli swallowed. Aragorn stared at him a moment longer, a curious light in his grey eyes. Then he turned away. "Why don't you join me for that nightcap after all, Lord Gimli. We can discuss things further, and perhaps we will find some answers to these questions."

He reached for the door handle.

*~*~*

Arwen could have screamed. Legolas knew the danger, had at least some idea of what Elessar was capable. But still he stayed. Whether by some misguided sense of loyalty or devotion or just his stubborn Silvan pride, he refused to flee. And now it was too late.

It was too late to escape by door or passage, even if he could get past the guards. They could hear Gimli's voice raised in the hall outside, calling Aragorn's name. Then there came the tramp of Dwarven boots that followed the King's light, familiar step and Gimli all but shouted Legolas' name in a clear warning.

He was nearly upon them. Arwen's throat was dry, her palms slick with sweat. She held her breath, straining to hear past the pounding of her heart. In a moment the door would open, and he would find them, and he would know that they had deceived him. What he would do then, to her, to Gimli, to Legolas . . .

Aragorn stopped just outside the door. They could hear him, his voice low and cold with suspicion as he questioned Gimli. Arwen kept her eyes locked on Legolas', silently willing him to calm. She did not fully understand the friendship that had grown between him and the Dwarf, but she knew that if Legolas thought Gimli was in danger she would never be able to stop him.

Legolas' eyes widened as he listened, and he drew a hissing breath. But he did not try to pass her. Instead he whirled away, and crossing the room in a few long strides he reached the open window. He looked down, scanning the sheer slope of the citadel wall.

"That balcony," he said, pointing to the narrow stone railing perhaps twenty feet below them and another ten feet over to the right, "That belongs to one of the guest chambers, does it not?"

Arwen joined him, tearing herself away from the conversation that still filtered from the hall. It took a moment before she understood his plan, and then she nearly laughed in a surge of hope and relief. Perhaps he would not get himself killed after all.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, Legolas, hurry."

His eyes gleamed, and he smiled. "I'll only be a moment."

In an instant he was over the sill, the edges of his boots and fingers digging between the worn stones as he slipped down the wall. Arwen pulled the window shut behind him and yanked the heavy draperies closed.

She turned her back to the window, swiftly scanning the room. Was there any sign to give them away? Her supper was still lying untouched upon the side table, but there was nothing incriminating in that. The air was fresher than it had been, and the candles guttered in their holders, but surely he would not notice something so small as that.

The handle to the outside door turned. Arwen straightened and pushed back her hair, trying to look as if she had just wakened from a doze. It was then, as the door opened and Elessar stepped into the antechamber, that she froze.

Legolas' cloak was still lying next to the fire.

*~*~*

"Aragorn, wait!" Gimli lunged forward to grab the King's arm, but it was too late. Aragorn pushed open the door and stepped into the antechamber. Gimli caught himself on the doorpost, barely avoiding a collision with the guard.

"Arwen!" Aragorn seemed surprised, but the Queen only smiled.

"Are you back already, my lord?" she said, coming into the antechamber. "It must be later than I thought."

The young door-guard, meanwhile, had dodged Gimli's lunge and was now standing uncertainly in the entranceway. He tried to take Gimli's elbow, but Gimli brushed him off with a warning glare. The boy hesitated, looking from the Dwarf to the King to the Queen in mute appeal.

Aragorn blew out his breath in an impatient sigh. Waving the boy aside, he glanced back to include the other two guards in the gesture. "Dismissed," he said. "Finish your shifts at post. I'll call if there is need."

With murmurs of "Yes, my lord," and "Aye, Your Majesty," they went, though Grodan and the boy each shot a sidelong reproachful look at Gimli as they did so. At this rate every guard in Minas Tirith would soon be wary of him, Gimli mused. He felt a small swell of accomplishment at the thought.

Aragorn took no further notice of them, however, but slipped past Arwen into the Royal Chambers. Gimli immediately forgot about the guards and everything else as he crowded in behind Aragorn. Craning his neck to see around the Man, he scanned the quarters anxiously.

Three rooms and a passageway opened off of the white stone antechamber. Through two of the open doors Gimli could see a sitting room to his right and the darkened interior of the Queen's private study directly ahead. He knew from visits past that the tightly shut door at his left led to the royal bedchamber.

There was no sign of Legolas. Gimli sagged a little in relief. His warning had worked, then. He glanced at Arwen, half-hoping for some sign of where the Elf had gone, and if whatever he had planned had worked. But the Queen didn't look at him. She was standing very straight and still next to the open hallway door, and her gaze was fixed upon her husband.

Gimli immediately tensed again. He had spent too long in Legolas' company not to recognize that look of razor-edged alertness in one of Elven blood. Legolas might be gone, but something was still wrong. They weren't safe yet.

Aragorn stood for a moment in the center of the antechamber, looking from room to empty room with a deep frown. Without a word he strode to the closed bedroom door and pushed it open, vanishing into the dark interior. Arwen watched him go. She glanced back into the empty hall behind her, and then toward the sitting room. Gimli saw her swallow, and as she turned toward the bedchamber again he caught her eye.

"_Legolas,_" he mouthed silently, and she shook her head.

Aragorn returned a moment later, empty-handed but frowning more severely than ever.

"Is something wrong, my lord?" Arwen asked. Gimli smothered a snort at the obviousness of that question, but he had to give the lady full points for bravery. Aragorn was clearly not in a mood to be reasonable at just this moment, and he radiated all the approachability of Smaug.

"Wrong?" he repeated, now stalking toward the study. He strode inside, and Gimli heard a closet door open. A moment later it slammed shut, and Aragorn reappeared in the doorway. He paused there, leaning against the stone archway as he stared at his wife.

"Why would you think something was wrong, my lady?"

"I –" Arwen faltered. She spread her hands in a beseeching gesture. "It is late, Elessar. I am tired, and –"

"Yes." Aragorn studied her, a calculating light in his cool grey eyes. "We missed you at the banquet this evening."

"I am sorry, my lord." Arwen met his gaze. "I was tired. You know that I don't do well in crowds."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "There are times when duty must come before personal preference, my lady. You should have been there to greet your guests."

Gimli stood almost forgotten in his corner by the door and looked from one to the other as they spoke. He tried to read the clues in the set of Aragorn's shoulders, in the thin press of Arwen's lips. The tension stretched like fine wire between them, and he was reminded sharply of Elessar's questioning of Legolas during the Council meeting. There was more being said here than just the words.

But he had little patience for such cryptic exchanges even on the best of days, and the King's last words were too much for him.

"Oh, Durin's beard, Aragorn!" he broke in. "It isn't as if she hasn't met all of us before. The lady is tired, so I say we drop it and all get some sleep. Mahal knows _you _could use it."

Arwen shot him a look of mingled surprise and gratitude, but Aragorn didn't respond. He continued as if Gimli had not spoken at all. "Actually, my lady, you were not alone in missing it."

Arwen turned her full attention back to him, her eyes narrowing. "Oh?"

"Yes. As it happened, Lord Legolas was also absent this evening. Now, isn't that interesting."

Arwen swallowed. "I . . . I don't know what you mean, my lord."

Gimli was starting to get nervous. Aragorn was heading into dangerous waters, and the sooner he left off this line of thought the better.

"I told you, Aragorn," he began. "Legolas –"

"Yes." Aragorn raised one hand, and Gimli fell silent. The King did not look at him, but kept his gaze fixed upon Arwen. "Lord Gimli and I were just discussing that. It seems that Legolas had other things to occupy him this evening. Now I wonder what he found so engaging, hmm?"

Arwen met his eyes with a level gaze. "I'm sure I don't know, my lord."

"I'm sure." Aragorn stared at her a moment longer, and then he straightened. Pushing away from the study door he moved toward the open sitting room. "No reason you should. But it is a curious coincidence, is it not?"

Arwen did not answer. Aragorn crossed the sitting room threshold, his back to them as he studied the brightly lit interior. "One might almost think –"

"Aragorn!" Arwen said sharply.

The King stopped halfway across the room and looked back at her. Arwen's hands were clenched at her sides, and her face was white save for two spots of color high on her cheeks. She lifted her chin.

"Is this really a discussion you wish to continue now, my lord?" She looked deliberately at Gimli, and then back to Aragorn.

Aragorn's brows drew together as he looked from his wife to Gimli and back again. "Perhaps not," he said at last. Returning to the antechamber, he strode briskly to the open hall door. Grasping the handle in one hand, he inclined his head courteously toward Gimli.

"It seems that I am more tired than I realized, Master Dwarf. We can talk further in the morning."

Gimli hesitated. Arwen was watching closely, white-lipped and silent, and he could not tell what she intended. He didn't want to leave her while Aragorn was behaving so strangely, but neither did he have an excuse to stay. If he could only learn what had happened to –

"Legolas!"

Aragorn was looking out into the hall. Gimli rushed forward. Legolas was walking up the passage toward them, looking as calm and unconcerned as if he were strolling through his own garden in Ithilien.

"King Elessar," he said, reaching the chamber door. He smiled at Gimli and then, looking past him to Arwen, gave a courtly bow. "Queen Undómiel. Forgive me for calling upon you so late. I had hoped that you had not yet retired."

Arwen nodded mutely. Aragorn's eyes narrowed. "What reason had you for calling upon the lady at all, Legolas?"

Legolas straightened and met his gaze fearlessly. "My cloak, Aragorn. I seem to have left it here."

Arwen made a small, strangled sound. Legolas smiled. "I did not miss it until I was outside this evening. The nights are still cold."

"I see." Aragorn's hand tightened upon the door. "And where was it that you went again, Legolas?"

Legolas raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Did Gimli not say? I asked him to inform you that I had gone outside the city walls. I –"

Aragorn cut him off with an oath. Legolas scarcely had time to react as the Man grabbed him by the shoulder, shoving him back against the open door. "You _lie_," Aragorn snarled. "I trusted you, and you come here in secret, conspiring against me –"

"Aragorn!" Gimli shouted.

The Man turned his head slowly to look at him, still holding Legolas fast. "And what is your role in this, Master Dwarf? What promise did he make you, to aid him in this treachery?"

Gimli gaped at him in astonishment. He had known that there was something wrong at the Council, but he had never imagined Aragorn capable of this suspicion, this fear that bordered on irrational. But before he could even begin to answer, Legolas spoke.

"Nothing, Aragorn." The Elf's voice was steady, drawing the Man's attention back to him. Legolas made no effort to free himself. He stood calmly, his hands at his sides, and met Aragorn's gaze from a few inches distance. "I promised Gimli nothing. I have _done _nothing. There is no conspiracy, no treachery. I only want to help you."

"To help me," Aragorn repeated in obvious disbelief. His shoulders shook, and he gave a ragged laugh. "Of course! You want to _help _me, and that is why you have disobeyed my orders, and turned my wife against me –"

"Aragorn, no –" Arwen began. She laid a hand upon his shoulder, but he jerked back.

"Don't!" he cried, looking from one to the other, and to Gimli's horror his voice was thick with unshed tears. "You planned this! You meet in secret, you plot against me, and now you tell me what? That you want to _help_ me? Do you truly think me so _stupid?_"

"If you continue like this, then yes!" Legolas snapped. He pushed Aragorn, breaking his grip and forcing the Man back a step. "We have done nothing, Aragorn, and yet at every turn you suspect us and accuse us. What is _wrong _with you?"

"Me?" Aragorn laughed again, and the sound was far from sane. "I am only trying to protect my people, Legolas. Does that seem so wrong to you? You know what the enemy is capable of. If he turns my closest friends against me, should I not respond in kind?"

"Estel, please," Arwen said. "We love you."

Aragorn stopped. He stared at her, breathing hard.

Legolas stepped forward. "Tell me what to do," he said softly. "If there is any way we can help you, mellon nîn, please. Tell us."

Aragorn lowered his head, his shoulders hunched as he pressed a hand over his eyes. "You love me," he muttered, so quietly that Gimli could barely make out the words. "You trust me." Then he looked up, and his voice was choked with anguish. "But how can I be _sure?_"

Legolas did not answer. For a moment they stood in silence, and then Arwen moved. Swallowing hard, she walked to her husband's side and hesitantly slipped her arms around him. With a faint, indrawn gasp he clung to her, burying his face in her hair.

"Shh," Arwen murmured, as his hands clutched at her. "Shh."

Gimli looked away, feeling horribly out of place. But Legolas caught Arwen's eye, and giving a brief nod he slipped past the couple and into the sitting room. He returned a moment later, folding a grey traveling cloak over his arm.

"Come, Gimli," he whispered, and together they left the Royal Chambers. Legolas pulled the door quietly shut behind them. He set off up the hall, striding along so quickly that Gimli had to hurry to keep up.

"Legolas wait!" he said. "What was that all about? How could Aragorn think that you and Arwen were planning against him?"

Legolas glanced at him without breaking stride. "He did not hurt you, elvellon?"

Gimli blinked. "No, of course not. But what does it all mean?"

"Good." Legolas looked ahead, and his jaw set. "It means, Gimli, that we have less time than I thought."


	13. Stratagems

"If anything be amiss, I pray thee me say,

That I may help to remedy."

– Everyman

Chapter 12: Stratagems

Aragorn's head ached. The morning light stung his eyes and made them water, and the droning voices of his councilors rose and fell with the throbbing in his temples. They were planning the muster of Rohan's army, and had been doing so for the past three hours. Which of Gondor's regiments would march behind which of the cavalry, whose officers would be in command, where they would find water along the Harad Road, and if that road would be safe, and if not what other paths they might take – Aragorn marveled at the sheer volume of detail that his advisors could think of, and the amount of time they could spend in debate without ever coming to a resolution. It hadn't been like this when he captained the Rangers.

Éomer had shown a surprising amount of patience for the proceedings, and actually seemed to enjoy the initial discussion of how Rohan's forces could be best distributed. He had spent years directing the éoreds in Théoden King's name, for military defense was an area that Grima Wormtongue had had little interest in. With quick, decisive strokes he drew on a piece of parchment how the ranks could be positioned around Gondor's forces to make best use of the cavalry's speed.

But as the discussion dragged on Éomer's interest waned, and he took to gazing for long periods out the leaded windows of the Council room. Aragorn had long ago given up any hope of forcing a quick decision from his advisors. It was best to simply let them go on talking as long as made them happy, and perhaps they would come to a conclusion by the time the army left, and perhaps they wouldn't. He had twelve advisors, and after four years he still wasn't entirely sure what all of them _did_, other than sit in the Council room and argue with each other.

They were discussing for the third time how the spring rains might have affected the road, and if the horses would be slowed down in the mud, and whether they should pack additional supplies to account for the increased travel time, when Aragorn finally had enough.

"Thank you," he said loudly, and when old Garwick failed to hear and continued to expostulate, leaning forward on the table and waving one purple-veined finger in the air, Aragorn cleared his throat. "_Thank you._"

Garwick instantly fell silent and straightened, and the rest looked at Aragorn with respectful attention. Éomer lifted his head, the glazed look clearing from his eyes. "Thank you all," Aragorn said. "I believe that we have enough to begin. You may continue this discussion at a later date." _A later date when I am not present, _he added to himself, as they rose with a general scraping of chairs and bowed their way toward the door.

Éomer seemed to hesitate before finally rising to his feet, and Aragorn caught his eye. He tapped a finger on the table in front of him, and the young King nodded. Aragorn waited until the last of the councilors had left and the heavy door closed behind them before he spoke.

"Did you wish to speak to me, Éomer King?"

Éomer glanced at him, and then looked away. He seemed to be searching for words. "Yes," he said at last. "I wanted to ask you, King Elessar, at the meeting yesterday you were concerned that we not discuss our preparations with outsiders, and now –"

"Ah." The throbbing of his skull intensified, but Aragorn forced a smile. "It can't be helped, I'm afraid. They'd find out in any case, so it was best to include them from the beginning and gain their cooperation." _And,_ he thought, _their loyalty at least is assured._ Garwick's grandson was the head of the King's Guard, three of the advisors' wives were ladies of waiting to the Queen, and the rest had sons in Gondor's army.

Éomer nodded. "I shall have to discuss it with the Council in Edoras as well." He paused, as if waiting for some reaction. Aragorn was still, meeting his eyes with a level gaze.

"And then I'll have to arrange someone to rule in my absence," Éomer continued. "I had hoped that Éowyn – but Elfhelm will do well."

Aragorn rubbed his chin. "What of the Lady Lothíriel?"

Éomer blinked. "Lothíriel? She could rule Edoras, I know, but the people may be reluctant to follow one who is not of Eorl's line. And she has no training in war, so if it came to a defense of the city –"

"No." Aragorn raised a hand. "You misunderstand me. I meant, where will she stay in your absence?"

Éomer's dark brows drew together. "In the Golden Hall, I expect, although she might prefer to return to Dol Amroth . . ."

He trailed off. Aragorn waited. The conclusion was obvious, he thought, and Éomer might well come to it on his own. It would be far better if he _did _think of it himself, or at least thought that he did.

"Doubtless Prince Imrahil would be glad to have his daughter home again," he prompted after a moment.

"Yes," Éomer said slowly. He paced away from the Council table, his arms folded. "But Dol Amroth . . . I've never liked the defense of that palace. Right on the edge of the sea, there's no tunnels for escape, and hardly a fortress to speak of. All they have are the ships, and much good those will be against a land assault."

Aragorn did not answer. He wanted badly to simply _tell _Éomer what should be done, but he held his tongue and waited.

"She could go to Helm's Deep," Éomer continued. "But for how long? It would mean abandoning Edoras, and the people won't do that unless the need is obvious. And Lothíriel has never liked being shut in – she wants to have fresh air, and space . . ."

He looked up. "King Elessar, what if my lady Lothíriel stayed here, in Minas Tirith? With your permission, of course – she would enjoy the Queen's company, I'm sure, and with Gimli seeing to the defenses she could not be safer."

Aragorn smiled and rose to his feet. "I think it is a fine idea," he said. "I promise that both she and the Lady Éowyn will be given the utmost care and protection. For however long is necessary."

Éomer smiled back. "Excellent," he said. "Then with your leave, my lord, I will prepare to return to Edoras at once. There is much to be done."

They clasped wrists in the warrior's salute, and then Éomer turned and strode from the room.

Aragorn waited until he had gone before sinking down again into a chair and pressing his hands over his eyes. It was done. The last pieces were falling into place, and soon everything would be exactly as he had planned.

_Tell me what to do._ He thought of the pleading note in Legolas' voice when he had said that, the feel of leather crushed under his hands and the muscles taut in rigid submission. _Trust us._

Arwen had cried. He had fallen with her into their bed, and her breast was soft under his cheek as he held her, and her tears had tasted like salt.

They said that they loved him. And he had no evidence of their betrayal. His head throbbed sickeningly, and he pressed his hands harder against his eyes, until his vision swam red and black.

They said that they loved him. And love, he thought, could be used.

*~*~*

Imrahil sighed and leaned back in his chair. His neck was stiff from bending over the parchment-laden desk, and his fingers were smudged with ink. He stretched his arms up over his head and turned his head from side to side, trying to ease the ache from his cramped muscles.

Sunlight streamed in through his open window, illuminating the stack of finished missives at one corner of the desk. Their red wax seals, stamped with the sigil of a swan, shone a deep wine color in the early afternoon light. The ink was already drying upon the half-finished page before him, and the cool breeze ruffled the depressingly high pile of blank parchments that waited at his left.

Imrahil stood and walked to the window, absently massaging the cramp from his fingers as he did so. The journey back to Dol Amroth would take five days, if it did not rain and the roads were good. He would leave on the morrow, but these messages could not wait that long. There were orders to summon the Knights, to forge new weapons and armaments, to send out the deep sea fishing boats and to dry and store the catch for use of Elessar's army. With only a few short weeks to prepare, they would need every day that he could give them.

Most importantly there was the smaller, separate pile of messages already rolled and sealed without any distinguishing stamp upon the wax. Those would alert his agents of the new threat growing in Harad, and order them deep into the desert to find what they could.

Imrahil only wished that there were not quite so _many _people in need of orders. He had been writing all morning and his fingers seemed now to have developed a permanent groove from grasping the quill. He had been unable to bring his clerks to Minas Tirith, for the King's summons had specified a small retinue, and in deference to Elessar he preferred not to use those in the citadel. The King had asked that they tell no one of their plans, and presumably that included the scribes who were sworn to his service.

_And_, Imrahil mused, watching the swallows dart over the white city's rooftops, _perhaps that is for the best. I would not have the King learn that I send spies to check his word._

A knock sounded on the chamber door, and Imrahil turned. "Come in," he called.

The door opened, and Faramir took a single step into the room. He stopped there, looking at the piled letters on Imrahil's desk. "I'm disturbing you," he said.

Imrahil shook his head. "In all honesty I would welcome the distraction. Please, join me."

Faramir inclined his head and closed the door behind him. "Messages to Dol Amroth?"

Imrahil nodded. "I was hoping to make use of the aviary's carrier pigeons, if there is no objection."

Faramir smiled. "Considering that it was you who first convinced my father to install the flock, uncle, I think that can be arranged. Dol Amroth's birds have proved reliable in the past."

Imrahil noted the use of familiar address and set it aside for consideration. It was not unusual in itself, for beyond the ties of family they had a bond formed by a shared love of books and Elven lore unknown to Finduilas' husband or elder son. From an early age Faramir had trusted Imrahil as he trusted few people, and Imrahil in turn loved his young nephew dearly. But the years under Denethor's censure had left their mark on Faramir, and Imrahil knew that he would not speak so without deliberate intention. This was to be a private visit, then. Not officially binding on either Gondor or Dol Amroth, and not reportable to the King.

Aloud he said, "I hope that they will prove so again. I will send a Knight ahead with copies, of course, but the birds would be faster."

"Mmm." Faramir paused by the desk, studying the half-finished page. He scanned it briefly and then looked up, one eyebrow raised. "'The gulls are flying far inland' – it is coded?"

Imrahil gave a thin smile. "As Elessar pointed out, there are many dangers in Middle-earth. I felt it best to be prudent."

"I see." Faramir looked away, now fidgeting with the swan quill that Imrahil had been using.

Imrahil waited. Faramir had always been of a more subtle nature than his older brother, and where Boromir would have simply stated whatever was bothering him the moment he strode through the door, the young Steward took his time. He would wait and watch to gauge his listener's reaction before speaking. It was a habit borne of self-preservation, Imrahil thought, and the irony was that this watchful caution made Faramir far more like his father than Boromir had ever been.

Faramir pulled the quill through his fingers, separating the long white barbs and then smoothing them together again. When at last he spoke he kept his eyes down. "It is of that danger that I wished to speak, uncle."

"Yes?"

Faramir took a breath and set down the quill. "Lord Legolas visited my room this morning."

Imrahil raised his eyebrows. Faramir looked up, meeting his gaze. "He asked me to delay summoning Gondor's armies. He seems to think that given enough time, we might find another way."

"Another way to do what?"

Faramir sighed. "A way to stop this war. He thought that if your spies were given time they might learn what state Harad is truly in, and if this threat that the King sees is real."

Imrahil frowned. "I would hope so as well, but that possibility was raised at the meeting. I admit that I know little of the Eldar, but it seems unlikely to me that he would come to you solely to speak about something we've already discussed."

Faramir's lips twisted in a wry smile. "I thought so as well. And you are correct, uncle, as usual. There was something else."

Imrahil looked at him expectantly, but Faramir said no more. His arms were folded, and he was staring at a spot on the floor as if the stone flags held some answer for which he was looking.

"And that was?" Imrahil prompted at last.

Faramir grimaced. "He would not tell me. But something happened last night, I think, after King Elessar left the Great Hall. He did something, or said something – I don't know what. But Legolas was worried, as I've ever seen him before. I didn't know he was capable of worry like that. I think . . . I would almost say that he was afraid."

Imrahil wondered if he had heard him properly. "Legolas was afraid? Of Aragorn?"

"No." Faramir ran a hand through his hair impatiently. "Not that. I . . . it's hard to explain. I would not say that he was afraid of Aragorn, but more that he feared _for _Aragorn. As if this war were a personal threat to him."

"An enemy is planning to invade his country," Imrahil pointed out dryly. "I find it difficult to imagine a threat more personal to a King."

"He _says _an enemy is planning to invade," Faramir corrected. "Have you seen any evidence of it? Has anyone seen _anything _that would substantiate that claim?"

Imrahil sighed. "What do you want me to say, Faramir? I have had no new information since the Council, and I will have none for weeks yet, if indeed it comes at all. No. I have seen nothing, and by every account that my agents can give me our borders are quiet. _But_," he continued, as Faramir opened his mouth, "that does not matter. Your King has ordered you to defend your country, and unless you can give evidence that he is wrong you have no grounds to oppose him."

"Then what shall I do?" Faramir demanded. "Shall I go blindly as he commands, and give no thought to the reason for it, or to the innocents who will die if this war is not stopped? Is that what a good Steward does, uncle? Is it?"

"And what of the innocents who will die if the Haradrim _do _invade?" Imrahil asked. He left the window and paced toward the hearth, making Faramir turn to face him. "You have served Gondor all your life, Faramir. I cannot believe that you would abandon her now."

"I am not!" Faramir cried. "Dear Eru, uncle, can you think that of me? But the Gondor I serve is a just land, a good land – she does not attack on the whim of her King! Even my father –" he broke off, breathing hard.

Imrahil started toward him, and then stopped. This was not the child he had known, he reminded himself, but a grown man and a leader in his own right. Faramir did not need his comfort, much as he longed to give it. The Steward of Gondor had come to him for guidance, and he would advise him as he would any lord.

Instead of going to his nephew he sat down, deliberately settling himself in a low chair before the empty fireplace. He could hear Faramir's breath slow, and then the click of his heels as the young man circled behind him. Finally Faramir dropped into the chair at his side, muttering something beneath his breath.

Imrahil raised an eyebrow at him. Faramir glowered back. "You have the most annoying way of doing that, uncle," he said. "Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to be angry at someone who refuses to get angry back?"

One corner of Imrahil's mouth quirked, and then he schooled his expression to one of calm detachment. "I don't know what you mean."

Faramir snorted. Imrahil reached into a side pocket of his tunic and withdrew a slip of rice paper. He was aware of Faramir watching him as he smoothed it against his knee. Too light and thin to be useful for messages, the rice paper was something of a novelty in Dol Amroth. But it did serve for the amusement of her Prince.

"Your father was a good man," he said quietly, when he was sure that Faramir had calmed enough to hear him.

Faramir looked up in surprise, and Imrahil smiled faintly. "Does it seem strange to you that I would say so? But he was." He hesitated a moment, remembering Finduilas, and then pushed the thought aside. That was not what Faramir needed to hear now. "He loved his country, and he served her as well as he was able. His fault, perhaps, was that he loved her _too _well, so that he feared harm to her above all else, and risked much to protect her."

"Too much," Faramir said. His arms were crossed over his chest, his head lowered so that his hair fell over his face.

"Yes," Imrahil agreed. The paper was smooth enough now, and he folded one edge back toward the center. "And the Dark Lord preyed on that. But Sauron is _gone_, Faramir."

Faramir snorted. "Next you will tell me that the palantír is harmless, and that I am a fool to question it."

"No," Imrahil said. "King Elessar certainly has the right to the palantír, if any Man does, and he has already proved that he has the power to use it. But the seeing stones are far from harmless, and I would not suggest otherwise." He paused, thinking as he turned the paper over and creased the opposite side.

Faramir was still, his elbows upon his knees and his head bowed as he watched. Imrahil was scarcely aware of the motions of his hands as they played over the leaf-thin edges. This was an old game of theirs, a habit from the days when Imrahil had sought the boy out in the dusty refuge of the citadel library. Then the long rows of books had muffled the sound of the sword-play outside, and the constant tension had eased from his nephew's thin shoulders as they talked or learned together. Imrahil's hands had been always moving then, forming and shaping wonders that could be folded in upon themselves and hidden in an instant. It gave them something to look at, when speaking was too hard.

"Elessar says that he has seen the Haradrim preparing for war. To our knowledge the palantír cannot lie – most certainly it cannot lie to the man who mastered it even from the Dark Lord's control." His hands stilled as he leaned forward, forcing Faramir to meet his gaze.

"So your choices, my lord Steward, are these. You can believe the King, in which case your duty is to obey him and muster the defense of your people. Or you can believe that he is lying, and that there is no outside threat to Gondor. In that case you must still defend your people, but you must defend them from their King."

Faramir passed a hand over his eyes, rubbing his face. Imrahil fell silent, watching him. He ached for the boy – despite all evidence, his heart refused to acknowledge any difference between this strong young captain and the slender lad that he had known. But this choice was not his to make.

It seemed a long time that they sat thus, in silence save for the faint rustle of paper and the birdsong that filtered from outside. Finally Faramir spoke.

"If I did decide that the King was . . . was mistaken, uncle, what would you do? Would you confront him with me?"

Imrahil was still for a long moment, thinking about that, and all its implications. But he knew the answer already. "Yes."

Faramir raised an eyebrow. "Yes . . . you would? If you thought that I was right, you mean."

"No." Imrahil looked down at the paper that curved like a bird's wing beneath his fingers. "I would stand with you, Faramir, because you are my sister's son and I love you. And," he shot the young Man a piercing look, "I know that you would not do such a thing rashly. If you made that accusation, you _would _be right."

Faramir smiled, but there was no humor in it. "I would, and likely I would spend the rest of my days in prison for it, if the King were truly mad enough to warrant the claim. Valar!" he laughed, throwing up his hands. "_If _the King were mad – wouldn't we _know? _Eru, of all people wouldn't _I _know? It isn't as if we haven't seen this before!"

"No," Imrahil said quietly. "We haven't. Don't fool yourself, Faramir. Your father was driven to despair by the Dark Lord. But the threat he saw – the threat that the palantír showed him – was _real_. If it were the same now as it was then we would have no question of what to do. It would be as Éomer King said, and our first priority would be to counter the attack on our borders."

Faramir groaned. "And if Elessar is right then I will have squandered the warning he gave us, and left Gondor open to the enemy. And if I send out the army and he is wrong . . ."

"If he is wrong then it is on his own conscience, and none of your doing," Imrahil said firmly. "There are some things that even you cannot control, Faramir, and if you haven't learned that by now then it is high time you did."

Faramir drew up short, and then laughed. "Such an elegant way you have of saying things, uncle. I think you must get that from your Elven heritage."

Imrahil snorted. "Don't be impudent." He folded the last edge in upon itself and smoothed it into place. "What of this army, then? Could you not go with it and judge for yourself if the cause is just?"

Faramir sighed. "I am Gondor's Steward, uncle, not her King. And her King is intending to lead the army himself. Besides which…" he trailed off.

Imrahil looked up. "What is it?"

Faramir shrugged uncomfortably. His thin cheeks were flushed. "King Elessar asked me to command the defense of the city. And . . . Éowyn is coming."

"What?"

"For her safety, King Elessar thought – that is, I asked him if – if my lady could come to Minas Tirith. There is no defense in Ithilien that could withstand invasion."

Imrahil studied him with a level gaze. "Then you do believe that the threat is real."

"I don't know!" Faramir stood abruptly, throwing his hands wide. "But if it is, how can I take that chance? And if Éowyn is here –" he stopped.

Imrahil watched him, slowly turning the finished paper construct between his hands. It was a ship, light as air with winged sails and a hull shaped like a swan.

Faramir took a deep breath. "While Éowyn is in Minas Tirith," he said, "I will stay with her. I'll not leave her here in the keeping of Elessar's guards. Not while he is behaving so strangely."

Imrahil nodded, but said nothing. Faramir turned away, pacing toward the open window. Distantly Imrahil could hear the call of a merchant hawking his wares – it was market day.

"You have made your decision, then."

"Yes." Faramir sounded calm. "I will delay sending for the army at least until Éowyn arrives. The roads are in poor condition due to the rains in any case, so waiting that long will not seem strange. In the meanwhile I will talk to Lord Legolas again, and learn what he plans for King Elessar. And," he swallowed, "I'm going to look at that palantír for myself."

Imrahil looked up, startled. The swan-ship slipped from his hands and tumbled to the floor.


	14. Suspicion and Threat

"A hard rain's a-gonna fall."

– Bob Dylan

Chapter 13: Suspicion and Threat

Imrahil did not sleep well that night. The discussion with Faramir had left him unsettled, and he turned restlessly upon his bed as the night lengthened. Doubts and half-formed suspicions circled like a storm of bat wings around his mind. Finally he gave up the attempt to sleep, and casting off the quilted bedclothes he rose.

The stone flags were cold under his bare feet as he padded to the balcony door. He needed to think, and he could not do that properly while shut inside this room. The cutting inrush of air as he opened the door made him gasp, however, and he took a moment to pull on his robe and find his slippers by the wardrobe before stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind him.

It was a beautiful night. The waning moon washed the city in an eerie glow, casting each tiered circle in sharp relief. Imrahil's blue silk robe was muted to a deep indigo as he leaned upon the balcony railing. The night breeze swept over him, tangling his hair. He breathed deeply, drawing in the wild scent of forest and grassland far from the city, faintly tinged with salt from the sea.

Faramir was going to look in the palantír. He had contemplated it before, Imrahil knew, during the dark years when Denethor had ruled in growing despair and the Shadow had stretched long over Minas Tirith. Imrahil had dissuaded him from the attempt then, for he could see no point to it. They knew what the seeing stone showed, and it was the truth. That was not the cause of Denethor's downfall. There was no sense in risking himself, Imrahil had told Faramir, for nothing could be gained by drawing the Dark Lord's attention or his father's ire. And, reluctantly, Faramir had agreed.

Imrahil did not think Faramir would be dissuaded now. And he was not sure that he wanted to try.

_Éowyn is coming._ Faramir had asked Elessar – he had requested permission to bring his wife to the safety of Minas Tirith. But he would not leave her there alone. He would not trust her to the King's keeping. And Imrahil wondered, how much of that request had been Faramir's choice, and how much a result of Elessar's prompting?

A part of him rejected that thought – he had known Aragorn during the War. He had fought beside him and seen his courage that would not admit defeat, his faith that held true even in their darkest hours. He had seen this Man who would not even enter the city that he had saved; would not claim the crown that he had earned, not until the people demanded it. Imrahil admired him, his honor and his courage like that of the ancient Kings of legend. He had sworn allegiance to him, and that was an oath that he would not break.

But the greater part of him stepped back, and he analyzed the situation with the cool detachment born of a lifetime's allegiance to the Ruling Steward of Gondor.

Éowyn would come to Minas Tirith, and she would be safe there, of that he had no doubt. But for how long? Who was to tell when this threat that no one could see was past? And while she was under Elessar's protection Faramir would not dare to defy him. Faramir might not see that now, but he would in time. And then it would be too late.

Not only Faramir's cooperation would be ensured, Imrahil realized, but Éomer's as well. And then there was the thought that made his skin prickle with a cold that had nothing to do with the night. _Why should the King be satisfied with controlling two allies, when he could have three?_ His heart thudded in his chest, and he gripped the stone railing so that his knuckles turned white. _Lothíriel._

He had to find Éomer. He had to warn him – of what? Elessar had made no threats, had offered no ultimatums. On the surface his invitation was perfectly natural and generous, for Minas Tirith was surely the safest place if war should come. Imrahil had no evidence of any other motive, no sign or hint that Elessar intended anything but good. But every instinct that he possessed was telling him that this was wrong, that there was danger here, and he had long ago learned to trust his instincts. He did not want his daughter to stay in Minas Tirith.

He was turning to go back inside when something caught his eye. A flash in the moonlight, so fleeting that he might have imagined it – no. He stepped forward and leaned out over the balcony rail to see along the pale curve of the citadel wall. There, on another of the guest balconies, a figure sat upon the stone rail with its face turned toward the west. A gentle radiance surrounded it that had nothing to do with the moon, and pale tendrils of hair floated unbound in the salt breeze.

Imrahil watched a moment longer, but something in the figure's solitude touched him with a sense of melancholy, a feeling that he was intruding upon a private moment. He turned away, and drawing his robe closer about him he returned to his quarters. It seemed that he was not the only one who could not sleep this night.

*~*~*

Faramir was looking for Legolas. He had risen early, hoping to catch the Elf before morning meal, but there was no answer to his knock on Legolas' door. He stood in the empty corridor for a time, debating with himself, but finally necessity overcame propriety.

It was but a moment's work to unlock the door with a key from the ring that hung at his waist. Cautiously he pushed the door open, and calling the Elf's name he leaned in to the bare minimum distance required to see inside the room. But the courtesy was unnecessary. At first glance he knew the room was unoccupied, and had been so for some time. The fireplace was cold, and the bed had the smooth, empty look of having not been used.

Faramir stepped back and closed the door, pulling it fast until the latch caught with a smooth click. He stood there, his arms folded and the key forgotten in his hand as he thought. Where would an Elf go, if he were not in his room? Then he modified the question – where would _Legolas _go? He had little experience with Elves as a whole, but from what he had seen Legolas was not the most typical representative of his race. With that thought in mind he straightened, and making his decision he set off down the hall in firm determination.

His resolve faltered somewhat at Gimli's door. He dismissed the guard easily enough, a lanky boy who quailed instantly before the Steward's authority. But a full minute's knocking and calling the Dwarf's name produced no response, and Faramir was about to give up, thinking that wherever Legolas had gone he had taken Gimli with him, when a noise sounded from within.

Faramir stepped back in alarm as the sound grew louder, developing into a deep-seated rumbling not unlike the inner workings of a volcano. Water splashed, and then there was a crash of breaking pottery and the rumbling broke off with a muffled oath. Faramir waited while long seconds passed in ominous silence.

He was just raising his hand to knock again when the door opened. Gimli stood before him, shirtless and bleary-eyed, with water streaming from his hair and beard and matting the reddish curls on his chest. He squinted up at Faramir.

"Ah, good morning, Lord Gimli –" Faramir began, but Gimli cut him off.

"Eh," he grunted, and turning his back on the Steward he walked away. Faramir stood blinking after him. He was unsure of whether to be offended or amused by the casual disregard of his presence. Hesitantly he followed Gimli over the threshold.

The room held a fine array of rumpled linens and garments strewn over the floor, and Faramir spied the broken water pitcher lying next to the washbasin. A sheet had been dragged from the bed and spread around it to sop up the water. Gimli was rummaging in the wardrobe near the bed. Faramir averted his eyes. He was a battle-hardened captain of Gondor, but next to the Dwarf's solidly muscled arms and torso he felt like a stripling youth again.

He was staring fixedly at the heavy red drapes closed over the window when Gimli called him back to attention. The Dwarf had exchanged his black sleeping trousers for a leather tunic and leggings, and he was seated on the edge of the bed, tugging at his boots when Faramir dared another look.

Relieved to find him dressed, Faramir attempted a smile and tried again. "Good morning, Master Dwarf. I was hoping to find Lord Legolas –"

"He isn't here," Gimli said. He had gotten the boots in place and was now staring down at the lacings with a determined expression.

"Ah, yes, so I see. But he isn't in his room, and so I thought that perhaps you might –"

"Uh huh." Gimli rubbed his hands over his face. "Fool Elf's gotten himself lost again, has he?"

"Well, not as such, but I –"

"Right." Gimli bent down and in a quick motion knotted the lacings over the tops of his boots. "So we'd better find him then. Come on."

With that he stuck his pipe in his belt and strode from the room, leaving Faramir hurrying in his wake.

*~*~*

Imrahil set out in search of Éomer as soon as the first streaks of light appeared on the eastern horizon. He had managed a few fitful hours of sleep during the course of the night, but was up and pacing his room before the stars had faded from the sky. Impatiently he watched as the black of night gave way to a deep blue, and as soon as it could be reasonably called "morning" he broke from his chambers and went to find his son-in-law.

He had scarcely gained the junction where the main staircase divided the two wings of the guest quarters, however, when he stopped. King Elessar was coming down the stair. Imrahil froze, thinking to retreat back up the corridor, but it was too late. Elessar saw him and raised a hand. Imrahil had no choice but to join him.

"Prince Imrahil," Elessar said by way of greeting. "Good morning. I trust you slept well?"

Imrahil hesitated, caught between truth and politeness. Then seeing the dark shadows under the King's eyes and the lines that seemed now permanently etched in his brow, he decided to chance the truth.

"About as well as Your Majesty did, I expect," he said.

Elessar laughed shortly and passed a hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that. But as you are up, I wonder if you would join me for a few minutes? There are some matters which we should discuss before you return to Dol Amroth."

Imrahil resisted the urge to look down the corridor to Éomer's room. Instead he smiled and inclined his head courteously. "Of course, my lord," he said.

*~*~*

Legolas was not in the Queen's garden. Nor was he in the small kitchen orchard, any of the citadel balconies, or the great hall where the servants were beginning to awaken and pack away their sleeping blankets. Far from being discouraged by this, however, Gimli seemed to grow more cheerful with each dead end in their search.

The sun had fully risen by the time they climbed up to the citadel roof, affording them a glorious, Elf-free view of the White City and the fields beyond. Gimli rubbed his hands together gleefully, his breath frosting in the chill air as he surveyed their prospects.

"Making it difficult is he?" he muttered. "Well, he won't escape us that easily. He'll soon learn what it means to be tracked by a Ranger of Gondor, won't he, Faramir?"

Faramir only nodded wearily. Somewhere in the dim, far-off past he could vaguely remember wanting to talk to Legolas, but he no longer recalled why or for what purpose. The hunt had become an end in itself, so far as Gimli was concerned, and Faramir was merely incidental to the plan.

"Right then," Gimli announced, slapping his thigh. "So he's not in the citadel. We need a horse!"

"A horse?" Faramir asked dully, following the Dwarf back to the rooftop entrance. Being Steward had certain advantages, and Gimli looked likely to exhaust them all before he was finished.

"Unless you want to walk all the way to Pelennor Fields," Gimli replied, his attention focused on the ladder as he climbed down, grasping each rung tightly before letting go of the one above it.

Faramir sighed and decided to stop asking questions.

*~*~*

"A question if I may, Your Majesty."

Elessar nodded without looking up from the maps that covered his desk. Imrahil took a breath. He had spent the last half hour discussing Dol Amroth's security with Elessar, until the King seemed satisfied that his force of Knights could stand as rearguard to the army without additional support.

Imrahil had no intention of permitting Elessar's garrison to be stationed over his Knights in Dol Amroth in any case, but it was a relief to have the King's agreement on the matter. In wake of this small victory, he decided to press his advantage. The sun had now fully risen, and likely he had lost the chance to warn Éomer, but the opportunity to speak privately with Elessar was too great to miss.

"Harad's desert is vast, my lord, and I have no reports to guide you. Where exactly will the army march?"

Elessar glanced up sharply, his brows drawn together in a frown. For a time he stood motionless, bent over the desk with one finger marking a place on the map while he stared at Imrahil. His eyes glittered with fatigue and something else that Imrahil could not quite identify. Imrahil remained still, holding Elessar's gaze.

"Why do you ask?" The King's voice was forbidding, suspicious.

"Is it an unreasonable question, Your Majesty?"

Elessar straightened. "No," he said after a brief pause. "But you must understand, Prince Imrahil, we are dealing with an enemy whose spies have already infiltrated Gondor. The details of our plans must be limited to as few people as possible."

"I see." Imrahil raised an eyebrow. "Do you not trust me, King Elessar?" He asked it half in jest, but somehow it did not sound so aloud.

Elessar studied him for a long moment in silence. Then he inhaled slowly, and the tension seemed to ease from his shoulders. "Yes," he said, as if coming to a realization. "I know that you can be trusted." He looked down again at the map, tracing an area to the south-east of Umbar. "They are near the sea. A day's march, two days' march from the coast, we will find them."

"The sea?" Imrahil said in surprise. "Then the ships of Dol Amroth –"

"Are too few for our purpose," Elessar said. "And the Haradrim have no love for the sea, they merely camp where the rivers flow. We will meet them on land, here."

Imrahil leaned forward to study the map. It was far more detailed than any he had seen before of that region. Where most maps showed the Haradwaith as an empty wasteland, perhaps with a dragon drawn in for effect, this one had tracings to indicate hills and weathered mountains, with the occasional river or oasis marked along with which months water could be found there. His own maps in Dol Amroth had similar details supplied by his agents to the south, but those were limited to the area immediately along the coast and did not extend much past the bay of Belfalas.

"This is remarkable," he breathed, staring intently at the shading that indicated a lava flow far inland. "How did you come by this?"

"I was there once," Elessar said. "Long ago." He pulled the map away and rolled it shut.

*~*~*

Gimli was already issuing orders as they approached the citadel stables, sending the attendants scurrying ahead of him, when he rounded the open stable door and stopped short. Faramir nearly walked straight into him.

"I knew it!" Gimli cried. Regaining his balance, Faramir looked over the Dwarf's head to see what he was talking about. There in the center of the stable floor stood Legolas, his back to them as he brushed Arod's coat. Shafts of light filtered through the cracks of the loft above, haloing the white-gold strands of Legolas' hair.

The horse nickered in response to Gimli's voice, and Legolas patted his neck absently. "Good morning, Gimli," he said without looking up from his work.

"I knew you'd be here," Gimli continued, ignoring the greeting. "You can hide, Legolas, but there never was the Elf born who could outwit a Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain."

"I see," Legolas said, setting down his brush. "In that case it is a good thing that I was not attempting to hide. All you needed to do was ask the guard at the gate where I went, and yet you still managed to track me down in – what was it?"

"An hour and twenty minutes," Faramir said with a grin.

"Only a little over an hour," Legolas said, turning. "Really Gimli, you improve by the day." Ignoring the Dwarf's scowl, he looked at Faramir. "You wished to speak with me, my lord Steward?"

*~*~*

"Then you will not be taking the Harad road," Imrahil said.

Elessar seemed to hesitate. "No," he said finally. "They expect that, and think to surprise us by marching up the coast instead. So we will go down the coast from Dol Amroth, and catch them in their own trap."

"I see." Imrahil frowned. "But what of the Corsairs? If the Haradrim are as close to the sea as you say, are they not trespassing on Corsair land? And wouldn't our people at Umbar have seen them?"

"The Corsairs are destroyed," Elessar said. "Their fleet was decimated in the War, and the Haradrim have taken their lands. This army is miles inland, hidden in the desert. Umbar cannot see them."

Imrahil shook his head. "Your Majesty, I have heard nothing of this. If Harad had waged war on the Corsairs, surely we would know it! Are you certain that –"

"Do you doubt me?" Elessar was very still, his voice soft.

Imrahil blinked. "No," he said slowly, feeling himself on treacherous ground. "Of course not, sire. I only –"

"Good." Elessar smiled a little, but his eyes were cold. "Then trust me in this. Trust me as Éomer does."

"Éomer, my lord?" Imrahil asked, but he knew what was coming. The transition was too quick to be anything but deliberate. Elessar had a point to make here, a way to keep Imrahil from questioning him further, and with utter certainty Imrahil knew that this was the true reason the King had wished to speak with him this morning.

Elessar's smile was calculating. "Yes. Did he not tell you, Prince Imrahil? Lady Lothíriel is coming to Minas Tirith."

_It was true._ Imrahil felt the breath knocked from his body, his limbs leaden with the shock of realization. Everything he had suspected, everything that Faramir had feared – it was true, and he was too late. Distantly he heard Elessar continue, saying the things that he had known would be said, that Minas Tirith was truly the safest place in time of war, that Lothíriel would have company with Arwen and Éowyn, truths that he could not argue. The words were swept away like windblown leaves, drowned by the roaring in his ears.

"Unless you have some objection," Elessar finished, and Imrahil could move again. The air rushed back to his starved lungs, leaving him feeling lightheaded and faintly sick.

_Yes,_ he thought. _Yes, I object! I object to my daughter being held hostage against me, I object to being forced into a war without proof, I object to my oath and my trust being turned against me!_

Imrahil looked into Elessar's eyes and saw no mercy there; no sign of the man that he once had sworn his life to serve. He forced a smile. "Of course not, Your Majesty. I trust you to do as you think best."

*~*~*

"But you must have some plan," Faramir said.

Legolas regarded him coolly, his eyes fathoms deep and unreadable. "I do," he said. "But it is not as you would wish, Lord Faramir. You seek a foe to fight, a battle to win. I think that you will be disappointed."

Faramir sighed heavily and looked away. The stable was empty save for the three of them. Gimli had suggested that the Steward might wish to converse with his friends in private, and the speed with which the stable hands had suddenly remembered pressing business elsewhere had been inspiring to watch. But the conversation was not going as Faramir had hoped.

"We have to do _something,_" he said.

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "I never suggested otherwise, my lord. But we must be careful. If we move too rashly Elessar will suspect us."

"What does that matter, if by waiting we lose the chance to stop him?" Faramir demanded. "I am charged with the protection of Gondor, Lord Legolas. How can I defend her, if I cannot trust her King?"

"How about this, then," Gimli said. He was sitting on the edge of a wooden feed trough, fiddling with his pipe as he watched them. "We tell him the army isn't going anywhere until he's proven that the Haradrim are really planning an attack."

Legolas shook his head. "It is not merely a matter of raising his suspicions. Aragorn is so close now, Gimli, and I fear . . ." he trailed off.

"What?" Faramir asked. He leaned forward, bracing his hands against the splintered bar of Arod's stall. "What is it?"

Legolas did not answer for a long moment. He stood with arms folded, his eyes hooded as he stared at the floor. "It is not something I have ever tried to explain to a mortal," he said finally. "Nor something that I have shared with any, save for two." His gaze slipped aside to Gimli. "Aragorn is . . . distant from us. His _faer_– his soul – everything that makes him the person that we know, is shadowed. I can feel it. He is weakening, and if we lose his trust now, we will never get him back."

Faramir shook his head. "I do not pretend to understand the Eldar, Lord Legolas, but I have seen something of the Shadow. We must fight it."

"How?" Gimli said. "If we can't even confront him without driving him away . . ."

"No." Faramir said. "That's not good enough. I want to help Aragorn, of course I do, but I must help Gondor first." He looked at Legolas. "I'm sorry, my lord, but I must act as I think best. We have no time to wait for the King to return to sanity."

"Now hold just a minute –" Gimli began, but Legolas had lifted his head and was staring at Faramir.

"You mean to look into the palantír," he said.

Faramir swallowed. "And if I do?"

"If he catches you –" Legolas began.

"It will be on my own head," Faramir said. "I know the risks, Legolas."

"_No!_" Legolas snapped. Faramir stepped back in surprise. Legolas' eyes were blazing, and Faramir suddenly realized that what he had taken for the Elf's habitual calm was in fact very carefully controlled fury.

Arod's ears were back, and he sidestepped nervously as Legolas stalked forward. Gimli got up and laid a hand on the horse's shoulder, but his eyes were wide as he watched his friend.

"I do not speak of risk to _you_, my lord Steward," Legolas said. His voice was low as he bit off each word with deadly precision. Faramir fought down the urge to back up another step. His throat was dry.

"You have seen the Shadow, and you know what a Man so influenced can do even to those he loves. If by defying the King you risked only hurt to yourself, or to your family, or even civil war, I would not stop you. You are Steward, and you have that right."

Legolas was close to him now, so that Faramir could feel his anger like heat against his skin. He heard the horses moving restlessly in their stalls. The sharp thud of hooves against a wooden partition made him jump, but he could not look away from Legolas' eyes.

"But you risk far more than that, Lord Faramir. Whatever Aragorn may do to you, _his _fate will be worse. He will not trust us, any of us, and in punishing you he will fall. _You _will give victory to the shadow, and you will destroy him."

Legolas spoke with such utter certainty that in that moment Faramir was convinced. Locked in the Elf's gaze, he saw it: the ruin that he would bring on Gondor, and on his friend. In that moment he would have agreed to anything. He would have done anything that Legolas asked, to keep that awful vision from coming true.

It was a testament to his own strength, and his years as leader of his people, that he did not.

"No," Faramir whispered, and breaking free of Legolas' gaze he shook his head, trying to clear it. "No. Aragorn is stronger than that. He would not fall so easily – not because of _me._ You cannot lay this upon me, Legolas. I have the right to see for myself."

"You do _not_ have the right to put Aragorn in jeopardy," Legolas hissed. "Not even though you sacrifice yourself to do it. I will not let you hurt him!"

"And I will not let him hurt Gondor!" Faramir shouted. He stopped. Breathing deeply, he stared at Legolas. "I will not," he repeated more quietly. "Not for you, and not even for him."

With that he broke away, and fled out into the clean air of day.


	15. Unthinkable

**A/N:** I said at the beginning of this story that it was not intended to be a straightforward slash or horror fic, but that it would get intense. This is one of the intense chapters. There is no explicit sexual or violent content, but the potential is there. If you find it disturbing, good. You're meant to. If you find it offensive, please e-mail me before you flame me. I'll be happy to discuss my reasoning with you.

"Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill! . . .

You knew, didn't you? I'm a part of you?"

– William Golding, _The Lord of the Flies_

Chapter 14: Unthinkable

"It isn't an unreasonable idea," Gimli said. He spoke cautiously, for Legolas' hands were still clenched and his anger was palpable upon the air.

The Elf did not respond. He stood looking after Faramir, his whole body poised as if to follow him, but he did not move. His head was turned away from Gimli, but the Dwarf could see the muscles tense along his jaw.

Arod whinnied shrilly and tossed his head, pulling away from Gimli's tentative hold. A bay mare in the closest stall neighed in response, jerking against her tether. The stable rang as other horses joined in, their cries punctuated by the jingle of harness and a splintering crash of hooves against wood.

Legolas turned. "Hssh," he murmured, walking back to where Gimli stood with Arod. "Hssh." Arod snorted and lowered his head, blowing hard. Legolas smiled as the horse butted him in the chest, knocking him back a step.

"_Man sa?_" he murmured, stroking Arod's neck. "_Avo osto nad. Ce na vellyn._"1

Whether it was the words or the soothing tone of Legolas' voice or something else entirely, it seemed to work. Arod quieted, his velvet nostrils flaring as he nuzzled the Elf's tunic. Gimli looked around. The restless stirrings and thumps from the stalls around them lessened, and within a few minutes the stables were still but for the soft huff of breath and the occasional swish of a tail.

With a shrug he turned his attention back to Legolas. He had long ago decided that Elves and horses shared a connection based on their similarities as incomprehensible creatures that delighted in tormenting Dwarves, and felt no need to explore the subject further. There were more important matters at hand.

"Faramir's plan," he repeated. "Seems like a good way to see what's really going on, at least, and maybe learn if the palantír is what's making Aragorn so. . ." he hesitated, unsure how to describe the King's recent behavior. "Cracked," he finished, and looked quickly to see Legolas' reaction.

Legolas did not answer for a long moment. He seemed calmer, as he stroked Arod's neck, but his eyes were very dark.

"Perhaps," he said at last. "_Something _is influencing him, elvellon, and it may be that the seeing stones are best left to ages past. But if it _is _the palantír, and Faramir looks into it, then Aragorn will know. In his current mind it will seem a betrayal, and what he will do then…" he trailed into silence.

Gimli frowned. "Aragorn wouldn't hurt Faramir, Legolas. He couldn't." But even as he said them the words seemed hollow to his ears, and in the back of his mind he heard Elessar's voice, strained and harsh with rage. _I trusted you, and you come here in secret, conspiring against me –_

"He will not," Legolas said firmly. "But if he _did _. . . it would be the end, for him as much as for Faramir. The darkness would consume him." He lifted his head, and his shoulders squared. "It will not have that chance. Not while I can prevent it."

"What then?" Gimli asked. "There's still this army that Aragorn sees – what if it's real? Seems to me that the only way to know is to look at this rock for ourselves, and if you stop Faramir –"

"No," Legolas said. The strong line of his jaw was set. "I don't need to stop Faramir. I need to stop Aragorn."

*~*~*

The Southron warriors filled his vision: endless rows of them in ranked formation, black veils rippling in the wind. Their armor gleamed beneath their cloaks and their lances were like a forest stripped bare and hateful in the desert sun. Beyond them the dun colored hills stretched in every direction, their worn flanks streaked with mineral deposits in striated bands of red and gold.

He knew those hills. He had walked there after the fighting was done, when the burning of the Corsair ships danced flame over the waters and the smoke had risen like black pillars to the sky. He had walked over the wind-sculpted sand and felt it break beneath his feet. _Fifty years_ . . . had it really been so long? The hills were the same.

But the enemy was different. Doubtless the Haradrim thought themselves clever to conceal their army far from their usual territory. But it did not matter. Whether they hid in the lands of Southrons or Easterlings or Corsairs, he would find them, and he would crush them.

If only his head did not ache quite so much.

Aragorn closed his eyes, feeling them hot and gritty beneath his lids. He pressed his palms against them, gently massaging his temples with his fingertips. _Fifty years_ . . . that had been back during his service to Ecthelion, when he had finally gained permission to take a small fleet and beat back the Corsair pirates to their own shores. That at least had been a blow to Sauron, he thought with a small measure of pride, and bought some time for Gondor. Though it was not enough. In the end nothing was ever enough.

_You are so impatient, Estel. _Almost he could hear Legolas' voice, light with amusement as when the Elf had teased him so long ago. And it was true, he knew, as much now as it had been then. Although he still thought that Legolas could have put it in a more diplomatic way.

"If the spiders did not find you first, I think you would go climbing into their nests just to save time."

"That wasn't part of the plan," Aragorn had retorted sullenly. He was attempting to get the spider web out of his hair. He had tried rubbing it with his fingers, scraping it with his dagger and, in a fit of desperation, washing his hair. The stuff was even stickier when wet.

Legolas, of course, looked just as clean and perfectly ordered as he had when they first left the path to scout to the south of Mirkwood three days ago. Aragorn sat dripping on a rock and tried not to think about the unfairness of it all. He glowered as a single ray of sunlight managed to filter through the dense canopy overhead seemingly for the sole purpose of illuminating the golden highlights of the Elf's hair.

For his part Legolas remained crouched over the stream, motionless save for the slow trailing of his fingers through the water. He did not look up, but Aragorn could hear the smile in his voice. "Which plan? _I _thought we were luring them into an ambush. I didn't know that you were going to play bait so realistically."

"I was already fighting three when the others grabbed me from behind. _Someone _was aiming his bow in the wrong direction."

"And _someone _moved away from his tree and left his back exposed during battle," Legolas said. "I've told you before, Estel, patience. If you wait," he straightened and pulled a fish from the stream in a flash of silver scales, "they come to you."

_But sometimes there is no time to wait,_ Aragorn thought wearily. _Sometimes, when the enemy comes to you, it is too late._

He lifted his head, gazing dully at the palantír before him.

It had changed.

Harad's army was gone. The weathered hills that bordered the desert had vanished. In their place was a garden walled in white stone, and seated there upon a bench was Legolas.

Aragorn blinked. Had he done that? Usually it took an effort of intense will to change the palantír's focus, and he hadn't meant to turn it toward Legolas. Had he? Valar, it was so hard to remember. He had been thinking of the Elf . . . he must have done it. There was no one else.

Legolas was writing something upon a flat tray laid across his knees. His head was bent so that Aragorn could not see his face, and a few long tendrils of his hair had escaped their restraining braids to brush the end of his quill. Between that and the occasional breeze that ruffled the loose parchments at his elbow he was having a difficult time, but with typical stubbornness the Elf showed no signs of giving up or going inside.

_I think that he would sleep outside in a snowstorm, _Aragorn thought in weary amusement. _If only to prove that he could._

And it had rained that night, hadn't it? After Legolas had caught the fish for their lunch, they had worked their way farther into the southern reaches of Mirkwood, and the growing darkness had not been wholly due to the Shadow over the forest. The trees were knotted close overhead, but Aragorn caught an occasional glimpse of low black clouds between their branches. The air was thick and heavy with the smell of thunder.

The forest was silent. It felt to Aragorn as if every leaf and animal were hushed, pressed down by a suffocating weight that was partly due to the weather, and mostly due to something else. Occasionally Legolas would stop and silently lay his hand against a gnarled tree trunk, frowning. He had grown quieter and more guarded with each league that they traveled south, whether in response to the changes in the wood or the coming storm Aragorn was uncertain.

They had passed two brackish streams since lunch, but by mutual consent did not touch their water. There was an unhealthy feel to the land, a lingering darkness that raised the hairs on the back of Aragorn's neck. More than spiders had invaded Thranduil's realm, he thought. This was the feel of Orcs.

Legolas knew it too. They did not speak of it, but naturally Aragorn fell back so that he was trailing the Elf by about fifteen paces. It was better not to present a single target. Legolas walked with his strung bow in his hands, his head turning as he scanned the woods around them. Occasionally he would stop to listen, or leap up without warning to double back through the branches above Aragorn's head.

It had taken several excursions together to accustom Aragorn to a Wood-elf's method of patrolling the forest, but he hardly jumped at all now even when Legolas dropped out of the darkness to land directly in front of him. The first time that Legolas had done such a thing to him, during a camping trip to celebrate his sixteenth begetting day, he had reacted on instinct and attempted to skewer the Elf with his sword. It had taken days for him to live that down, and cost him his favorite dagger as a bribe to keep Legolas from telling the Twins. But since that time Aragorn had learned to keep his attention focused where his tracking skills were of best use, and leave the overhead surveillance to Legolas. Their skills complemented each other perfectly in this way, and Aragorn accepted the occasional near-collision from above as simply the price one paid for hunting with Wood-elves.

The setting of the sun was marked by a gradual deepening of the darkness between the tree branches, and again by consent they stopped early to make camp. Supper was a quiet affair of dried venison, for they dared not risk a fire and in any case there was no game to be found. They ate swiftly, poised to seize weapons at the first sign of attack. But none came, and as the night wind picked up in the branches overhead Aragorn thought that perhaps even the Orcs had decided to stay home tonight.

The first real snag came after they finished eating and were faced with choosing watches for the night. Legolas flatly refused to sleep on the ground. There was nothing unusual in that, and Aragorn had grown used to sleeping with his friend perched above him in one tree or another. But this time Legolas declared that Aragorn should not stay on the ground either.

"What?"

"It isn't safe, Estel." Legolas did not look up as he knotted their packs together.

"Legolas," Aragorn explained as patiently as he could, "I can't sleep in a tree. You know that."

"You can't sleep on the ground either. Not tonight."

"I'd fall off and end up on the ground anyway."

"No you won't." Legolas held up a blanket. "We'll tie you in."

"The branches are _hard._ And cold."

Legolas stood and slung their combined packs over his shoulder. Jumping up, he caught a branch that jutted high above his head and vanished into the spreading branches of the oak tree he had selected for their night's camp. Leaves rustled overhead.

"It's going to rain," Aragorn said. "They'll be hard and cold and _wet._"

Legolas dropped straight down in front of him and picked up the blanket. He began twisting it into a rope, his eyes gleaming.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"You hear that?" Aragorn took a step back. "It's going to storm."

Legolas did not answer. The blanket-rope snapped between his hands.

"_Lightning_, Legolas. Not a good time to be at the top of a tree."

Legolas paused. Aragorn was quick to take advantage of his hesitation. "This is a big tree, too. Taller than the others. If lightning strikes, this is a prime target."

"It's the only one for miles that is healthy enough to climb," Legolas said absently. He was watching the sky, dark patches of cloud visible through the rustling canopy. Thunder boomed again, closer this time. "We are in a valley . . ."

"A shallow valley," Aragorn broke in. "And no towers or peaks around to draw the lightning away, either. Now, if we could find some caves for shelter . . ."

Legolas grimaced. Aragorn hid a smile. With victory nearly in his grasp he could afford to sympathize with his friend. The storm was a danger, certainly, but the feel of Orcs had not abated, and Legolas must sense them even more acutely than he. Every instinct that the Wood-elf possessed was telling him to climb, to seek safety high where the _yrch_ could not reach. But Aragorn had to remain on the ground.

Legolas looked back at him and sighed. Aragorn met his gaze with his best innocent, 'only trying to help' expression. The Elf rolled his eyes in response and then laughed. "Very well. For tonight, we shall find refuge as Men do."

With that he tossed the blanket at Aragorn's face and leaped back up into the tree. Startled, Aragorn snatched the blanket out of the air. He scarcely had time to wonder what he was supposed to do with it, however, when Legolas dropped down again almost on top of him.

"Come along," he said, and handing Aragorn his pack he set out away from the large oak. Bemused, but not about to argue with success, Aragorn followed him. After perhaps ten minutes they came to a low, densely woven thicket of thorny branches. The first heavy drops of rain spattered upon their long-dead leaves as Legolas bent down to push the branches aside.

"This should do," he said, and squeezing in behind him, Aragorn had to agree. The crossing branches overhead were as solid a shelter as they were likely to find, and so low that he could not stand without stooping. Lightning would not be a problem. A drift of leaves rustled dryly beneath his feet. It was so dark that he could scarcely see the wall across from them, though it could not have been more than five feet away. He breathed deeply, taking in the musty scent of the leaves overlaid by the green, metallic taste of the coming rain.

"I don't smell Orcs," he said.

"No," Legolas replied. As his eyes adjusted, Aragorn could see the Elf kneel and pull another blanket from his pack. "There are tufts of wolf-hair in the thorns, there –" he pointed into the darkness, "but they have not used this den for many months. I doubt now if there are any natural beasts left in this part of the forest."

Aragorn did not answer. He watched as Legolas finished and settled upon his bedroll with his arms around his knees. His movements were unhurried, his voice deliberately calm. In the dim glow that surrounded the Elf, Aragorn saw a muscle jump along his jaw, and knew the effort it cost Legolas to maintain that control.

He didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," came to mind, but any expression of sympathy seemed hopelessly inadequate in the face of the Shadow over Greenwood. Finally he spread his own blankets next to Legolas' and sat down, silently pressing his shoulder against his friend's. Legolas did not speak, but after a moment he shifted his weight, pushing back against Aragorn in return, and Aragorn felt some of the tension ease from his slender frame.

*~*~*

_You care for him._ Aragorn only nodded, too tired to be surprised. At times the directions his thoughts took during these sessions seemed strange, alien even to him. Of course he cared for Legolas, just as he cared for Arwen, and for Gondor. That was why he had to keep them safe.

_But he is strong_ . . . yes. Legolas was strong. He was too strong, perhaps, and too confident in his own skill. Even with Gimli in Minas Tirith he would be difficult to control.

_You could make him obey._ Yes. If necessary, he could. But it would not come to that. Surely Legolas would understand that he only did what he must do, for Gondor, for them all. Surely it would not come to that.

Yet there was something tantalizing in the thought. Too weary to concentrate, Aragorn allowed his mind to drift where it would. Idly he remembered the feel of Legolas' tunic crushed beneath his hands, the swift rise and fall of his chest and the swallow-beat of his throat's pulse. He was strong, yes, stronger than Aragorn if truth be told.

But that was an advantage he would not use. Aragorn closed his eyes, recalling the sense of restrained power in him, rigidly controlled at Aragorn's touch.

_He is beautiful._ And that was a foolish thought because of course Legolas was fair to look upon, as all Elves were fair. Physical beauty was simply a part of him, like the color of his hair or his eyes, and it had never touched Aragorn's heart as Arwen's had.

But oh, to leash the power in him, to see the defiance flare in those dark eyes and then subside, willingly restrained at Aragorn's command . . . and he could do it. _He could make that proud head bend before him, and he could call Legolas to heel and to obey, and hadn't he, in the shelter of the thorn bushes hadn't he –_

"No!" Aragorn jerked upright. His eyes cleared, and he stared hard at the palantír before him. It was dark, blank and empty as any stone.

"No," Aragorn said again. His voice sounded faint to his ears; his throat was parched. Groping behind him, he found the back of his chair and pushed to his feet without taking his eyes from the black crystal.

"It wasn't like that," he said aloud. "I never would – I _never _thought . . . _no!_" He leaned forward, pressing his hands flat against the wooden table. "Legolas is my _friend!_"

Bile rose in his throat, and he realized that he was shaking.

"Show yourself!" he shouted. Something had to be doing this. He wouldn't think this, wouldn't _still _be thinking this on his own. _He_ _would not._ Someone, something, was doing this to him. They had to be.

The palantír was silent.

Furious, he bent low over the dark glass, so that he could see his own pale face reflected in its depths. "_Show yourself!_" And now the palantír swirled to life, fire flaring within it and spinning out to fill the sphere, washing the room in a red glow.

The fire cleared, and there was the Haradic army, ranked in their black legions. Aragorn forced the perspective to veer wildly, sweeping over the army, the surrounding hills. From the desert flats to the waves of the bay he took it, and then north, to the spires of Dol Amroth that gleamed white in the spray of the sea.

The palantír responded instantly to his command, and he choked back a cry of frustration as he forced it east, past the ruin of the Morannon into the very heart of Mordor where the lava rocks covered the plain, barren and sharp as shattered glass. North and west he took it, over the green fields of Rohan to the rocks of the Emyn Muil.

Nothing. His breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed the stone of Orthanc on, to the very limits of his strength, but there was nothing there. The palantír was only a tool. There was no force, no will set against his, no mind sought to master him.

Finally, exhausted, Aragorn released it. The palantír faded instantly to black. He stared at it as it lay there, mute and hateful in its very presence. His head ached, and his stomach churned in horror.

And still there was the thought, sickening in the very desire it aroused, _You could make him obey._

Aragorn moaned. _No . . ._ The protest was weak, lost before it reached his lips.

He was trembling, his skin cold and slicked with sweat. _Something must be doing this_ . . . but the palantír was silent.

He whispered it aloud, in bewilderment and growing fear. "Valar, what is happening to me?"

But there was no answer.

* * *

1 _Man sa?_ _Avo osto nad. Ce na vellyn._ What is it? Don't be afraid. You are with friends.


	16. Part II: The Pieces Are Moving

**Part II: The Pieces Are Moving**

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"If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am for myself, what am I?

And if not now, when?"

– Hillel, _Ethics of the Fathers_

Chapter 15: A Steward's Charge

Faramir managed to delay summoning Gondor's army for six days. On the seventh, Éowyn arrived in Minas Tirith. The watchmen saw her party approach upon the newly broadened road from Ithilien, and even before she had reached the city gate word came from the citadel that she was to be taken directly to see the King.

Elessar welcomed her warmly, coming forward to meet them as they entered the black and white marbled Hall of the Kings. He bowed to kiss Éowyn's hand and inquired politely about the journey from Ithilien. Faramir stiffened at that, but there was no chance to warn her.

With typical bravado his wife made light of the dangers: her party had encountered no Orcs or lawless Men on the way to Minas Tirith, the escort that the King provided was really unnecessary, and no, the roads were perfectly sound since the rains had stopped.

"I am glad to hear it," Elessar said. "But these times are not without peril, and I hope that our precautions will be forgiven even by a champion of your renown."

"I do not practice war any longer, nor take pleasure in it," Éowyn replied. "But like my lord husband, I shall not hesitate should the need arise."

"And we are grateful for that, my lady. We could not leave the city in safer hands."

But as the King stepped back his gaze flickered to the telltale swell of Éowyn's waist, and in that instant Elessar's eyes seemed dark, their clear grey turned to black. A nameless dread welled within Faramir and he drew Éowyn close, putting his arm protectively around her. She smiled and hugged him in return, heedless as ever of courtiers that watched or the solemnity of their surroundings.

The fierce love that he felt for her in that moment nearly overwhelmed him. He rubbed his cheek against her windswept hair, breathing in the earthy scents of dust and horse that clung to her, overlaid with the clean scent of wind and sun-warmed grass. He could feel the new fullness of her breasts as they pressed against his chest, the strong beat of her heart.

The back of his neck prickled, and he lifted his head. Elessar was watching them with a cool, speculative expression that Faramir did not understand and did not like. He stared directly, challengingly into the King's eyes. Elessar said nothing, but held his gaze for a long moment before inclining his head as if in salute. A faint smile played over his lips, and Faramir saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes. He knew then that he was out of time.

*~*~*

Messengers left the city that afternoon, heading out to all reaches of Gondor. They rode swiftly in groups of two and three, light but well armed, each group bearing the white standard of the King. Standing upon the wall above the main city gate, Faramir watched them go.

He had not been there long when something moved at the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to see Legolas beside him. The Elf still wore the silver tunic and dark grey leggings in which he had attended Elessar's court that morning, and his loosely braided hair shone like a brand in the sun. Faramir dipped his head in greeting, and Legolas nodded in return. For a time they stood together in silence, watching the small figures gallop away over the new green of the fields.

"I could not wait any longer," Faramir said at last. "I had no choice."

"No," Legolas answered quietly. "You did not." He glanced at Faramir. "I trust that Lady Éowyn is settling in well?"

Faramir gave a wry smile. "As well as might be expected. She's gone to the stables, I believe, and do not be surprised if they are torn down and completely rebuilt by morning. Already since her arrival she's reorganized the staff of the Steward's Chambers and told me that her assigned bodyguard is, to quote, 'a confounded nuisance who would be better off attending to the privies than to me.'"

"I see." One corner of Legolas' mouth quirked. "It is good to know that some things at least have not changed."

He sobered then, turning his bright eyes back toward the departing riders. "I believe that I owe you an apology, Lord Faramir."

Faramir raised his eyebrows. "My lord?"

Legolas sighed. "I was harsh with you at a time when you would have profited more from my counsel than my anger. The danger to Aragorn – to King Elessar – of what you propose unsettled me, and I spoke in the trouble of my heart. Please forgive me."

Faramir blinked, feeling as if the world had skewed slightly around him. He had studied Elven lore and admired the Eldar all his life, though he had never seen one until Legolas came to Minas Tirith. But never had he imagined that an Elf – an Elven Prince no less – should ask for his forgiveness. It was a moment before he could speak.

"I had not realized the nature of the danger you describe, my lord – indeed I still do not fully understand it." He took a breath. "But if it is as grave as you suggest, then your response was justified. So too would I react were one to threaten a friend whom I love. No apology is necessary."

"Nevertheless I offer it, and I ask you to accept it," Legolas said. He turned toward him, leaning one hip against the wall and folding his arms. He looked full into Faramir's eyes, as if searching for something.

Faramir flushed before the intensity of his gaze and ducked his head. Legolas seemed to take this for acknowledgment, for he continued. "I had other purpose as well in seeking you. It was my hope that you had changed your mind, or might yet be persuaded to do so."

Faramir glanced to either side, but the guards were occupied with closing the city gates and were well out of earshot. "My lord," he said softly, "please believe that I would not do it if there were there any other way. Even apart from Elessar's reaction were he to learn of it, I do not relish contact with that palantír."

Legolas drew a slow breath. "It is well that you do not. But you will not change your mind?"

Faramir swallowed. "For Gondor's sake, I cannot. I am sorry."

Legolas sighed. "Very well then. As I cannot stop you, I shall at least do what I can to prevent the King from discovering you. Do you have a key to the Tower room?"

Faramir frowned. "Yes. That is, I had one made when my father . . . during my father's rule, though I never used it. He did not know of it."

Legolas shook his head. "Elessar will have changed the lock since that time."

Faramir shrugged. "Then I will have to make another key, or take his." Even as he said this he felt a qualm of misgiving, but he shook it off and spoke with firm resolve. "One way or another, my lord, I will do this."

Legolas' lips thinned. "Or you will be caught before you ever reach the Tower, be hanged as a traitor, and Gondor still will go to war. And Aragorn will be lost."

He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he spoke again his voice was deliberately calm. "Allow me this. I shall obtain a copy of the King's key for you, and prevent him from learning of your actions if I can. He is so bound to the darkness now that I think he will sense your intrusion in any case, but I will at least keep him from harming you as the shadow would have him do. In return I ask this. Do not act too quickly. Wait as long as you are able before you take this risk. Perhaps Imrahil will learn what we need to know from his contacts in Harad, and the palantír will be unnecessary."

Faramir hesitated. "My lord, there is little time to be had. The army will be ready to march in a few weeks at most. That is scarcely enough time for Imrahil's agents to scout southward, much less for them to respond."

"I know." Legolas' clear eyes darkened, as if in pain. "But given the choice between little hope and no hope at all, Lord Faramir, I would choose to wait. Give me the chance to reach Aragorn, if I can."

Faramir sighed. "I pray that you will, my lord. And in the meanwhile I will wait as long as I am able." A thought occurred to him then, and his lips twisted in an ironic smile. Legolas raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

Faramir shook his head. "It is nothing, just . . . if I do look in the palantír and Elessar senses it, then at least we will know for certain that it is the cause of his behavior."

Legolas did not smile. "Not the cause, my lord. Connected, yes, I think it must be, but not the cause by itself."

*~*~*

Faramir did not have much opportunity to speak with Legolas after that. He was busy, for there were countless details to be attended to as the city prepared for war. Until he could prove otherwise he had to assume that the threat of invasion was real, and he was determined that the people would not suffer by inattention on his part. Often he was up from before dawn until well past dark: inspecting the city's wells and food storage cellars, issuing orders to the armories, ensuring that the houses of healing were well supplied.

The one person who was even busier than Faramir was Gimli. Spring had come at last to Minas Tirith, and with each bright, cool day the Dwarf could be found upon the city walls, sounding the stone for weaknesses, measuring and planning the new defenses. He did indeed add a portcullis to the main gate, cunningly worked so that it could be drawn up by a pulley into a hidden recess within the stone wall. As March passed into April wooden scaffolding went up over every tiered wall of the city, and long trains of wagons began to arrive from the quarries of the Ephel Duath, laden with stone for the fortifications.

And still there was no word from Imrahil. Legolas had hardly left Elessar's side since his talk with Faramir, and the Steward had no opportunity to ask the Elf if his tactic was working. But it seemed to Faramir that Elessar was less grim than he once had been, and the harsh lines were slowly fading from around his mouth and eyes. There was healing to be found in the Eldar, he knew, and he had witnessed Legolas' abilities in the restoration of Ithilien. Perhaps restoring a King was not beyond him after all.

But the Elf's method required time, and with each passing day Faramir was more acutely aware that time was the one thing that they did not have. Gondor's army was nearly ready, and awaited only Rohan's arrival to march. He had to move soon. Whether to the King's detriment or not, with Legolas' aid or not, he had to act.

Unfortunately, that was easier thought than done. The King kept the key to the Tower upon a ring at his waist. Then too a member of the King's Guard was stationed before the Tower door at all times, and even could he somehow obtain the key Faramir had no illusions of his chances at getting past Elessar's elite soldiers, Steward or no.

So he waited. With patience born of long years' bitter experience in his father's court, Faramir watched and waited for opportunity to strike.

It was on market day in the third week after the Council meeting that this stalemate ended. Faramir was standing high upon battlements of the third circle, watching the milling tumult in the cobbled streets below. Prosperity had been slow to come to Gondor in the years after the War, but under Elessar's rule their humble market had grown to fill three levels of the city, and soon might expand to a fourth.

Faramir looked upon the narrow passages crowded with wooden pushcarts and stands of every type, the bright bolts of fabric shining in the sun, the scent of roasting meat and exotic spices filling the air and the cries of the merchants, jugglers, bards and acrobats jostling for attention amongst the lords and ladies, craftsmen and servants of Minas Tirith. And the soldiers, of course, were there as well. Knights and legionnaires from every province in Gondor had swelled Minas Tirith's population over the past few weeks, and their tents and banners of silver and sable filled Pelennor Fields as far as the eye could see.

Or as far as a Man's eye could see, at any rate. Faramir did not turn his head as he became aware of someone standing beside him. There was only one being currently in Minas Tirith who could approach him unawares.

"Rohan is coming," he said quietly, though not so quietly that the other could not hear him, crowd or no. "I received word from Éomer King yesterday: the Council of Meduseld has voted to join Elessar in war to protect the Free Peoples."

"They have traveled swiftly, or else your messenger was slow," Legolas replied. "Already the west wind carries the sound of their horns. They will be here by nightfall."

Faramir straightened. He turned deliberately to face Legolas. "Then I must do it tonight."

The challenge was unmistakable, but Legolas did not rise to meet it. "So be it," he said. "My pledge to you, my lord, is fulfilled."

Cool fingers grasped Faramir's hand, and he looked down as Legolas pressed something solid into his palm. He held it up in astonishment. "The key!"

"Yes," Legolas said. "Listen closely, my lord. There will be a banquet tonight in honor of the Rohirrim. At some point during that banquet Gimli will leave the hall. Follow him – but not so closely that it is noticed. I will keep King Elessar from seeing your departure. Gimli will distract the guard from the Tower door. Then you may do as you will."

Faramir nodded, but his attention was primarily given to the impossibility in his hand. "How did you get this?"

Legolas glanced at the key. "I took it from Elessar's belt ring during the court this morning. I made a wax impression and returned it to Elessar after the mid-morning recess. When the court was dismissed Gimli carved a mold from the impression, and crafted this copy in the ironmonger guild's forge. It seems that he approves of your plan, my lord, and has been most anxious to act upon it these past weeks."

Faramir realized that his mouth was open. "_You took it from Elessar's belt? _During the court this morning? But I was standing right next to you! I never saw you move!"

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "Of course not, my lord. I did not wish you to."

Faramir blinked, but Legolas seemed to dismiss the matter as unimportant. He began to turn away, and then stopped. For a long moment the Elf stood with head bowed, as if wrestling within himself. Then slowly he lifted his head, his slender shoulders squaring as one who does what he must, without hope for success.

Turning back he looked intently, almost pleadingly at Faramir. "You need not do this, my lord. We may yet learn the truth when the army reaches Dol Amroth. For Aragorn – for yourself, for those whom you love – I must ask you. Do not do this."

Faramir met those dark eyes and swallowed. Elves did not beg favors of Men, he thought. But if they did, it would look like this.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I cannot take that chance. For Gondor's sake, I must do it tonight."

Legolas stepped back, and his eyes hardened. "Very well," he said. "Then for Gondor's sake, I hope that you will make it worth the cost."

*~*~*

The Rohirrim arrived that evening. The sun was just sinking behind the western foothills, painting the sky in mingled shades of gold and crimson, when the clear sound of horns came at last to mortal ears. Minas Tirith's trumpets rang in response, and the townsfolk crowded upon the city walls and rooftops, shading their eyes against the last slanting rays of the sun.

High up on the city wall's newly constructed second archery level, Gimli set down his carving tools and straightened, stretching the kinks from his back as he looked over the fields with the others. For a long moment there was nothing. Then a single rider appeared silhouetted high upon a distant hilltop, dark against the red sky. He blew a piercing note upon a horn. A slow rumble grew in the wake of that blast, and eight thousand horses swept down from the hills, a moving sea of tossing heads and manes and banners that whipped back in the wind of their charge. Even at this distance Gimli felt the stone wall shake in the thunder of their hooves. He glanced up at Legolas beside him.

"Always like to make an entrance, don't they? At least this time they didn't wait for sunrise."

A faint smile curved Legolas' lips, the first that Gimli had seen from him all day. "And this while you do your part in a purely utilitarian manner. Alas that Éomer did not learn from your humble example, elvellon."

Gimli followed the Elf's glance to the new parapet beside them, which he had been carving in shape of a lion's head. He grinned and bent down to gather up his tools. "Well, I suppose we can allow the lad his fun. There's no harm in it, after all."

Legolas did not answer for a moment. His eyes were trained upon the horsemen that came, slowing now as they approached the Rammas Echor. "Perhaps I am not the one to judge when harm is done, Gimli," he said at last. "For it seems to me that grievous hurt is planned this night, and there is little I can do to prevent it."

Gimli sighed. "You fret too much, Master Elf. Aragorn's been better of late, hasn't he?"

When Legolas did not respond he continued, slinging the satchel of tools over his shoulder. "I don't think he's gone half-cocked in the past two weeks. You're helping him, Legolas, and so is Faramir. Getting that palantír away from him is probably the best thing we can do at this point. You'll see. Everything's going to be fine."

*~*~*

Faramir was nervous. Seated at the King's table with Arwen on his right and Éowyn on his left, he breathed slowly in and out, trying to slow the pounding of his heart. His napkin was knotted tightly in one hand, clenched in his lap.

_And why should a Steward of Gondor be nervous?_ He could almost hear his father's voice, dry and bracing as ever in his mind. _Do you not act in service of your country?_

And he did act for the good of Gondor, he told himself again. Whatever happened this night, none could say that he did not do as he thought best for his country, and his King. Not even Legolas could doubt him in that.

He stole a surreptitious glance at the Elf, but Legolas did not look at him. The Prince's entire attention seemed focused on the discussion between Elessar and Éomer, who was seated at the King's right. Legolas said little, but would interject a comment now and again when the conversation lagged, and soon they would be in heated debate again.

So caught was Faramir in observing them that he missed it when Gimli left. He had not sat next to Legolas, as was his custom, but instead was positioned at the far end of the table. Faramir started a little when, twenty minutes into the banquet, he realized that the Dwarf's chair was empty. Éowyn looked at him curiously. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and touched her hand.

"I've just realized that I forgot to give a message to the Captain of the Guard," he murmured. "I'll only be a moment."

She nodded, a slight frown drawn between her brows. He smiled again and pushed his chair back. He inclined his head toward the King as he rose, but Elessar did not look around.

Faramir tried to ignore the guilty churning of his stomach as he walked deliberately away from the King's table. It had been something close to torture to keep this secret from Éowyn, and more than ever he longed for her counsel. She had a remarkable ability to step back and analyze any situation objectively, and then make a swift decision and act upon it without hesitation or regret. Those were skills that he wished for now, but he dared not take her into his confidence, not yet. He was less concerned that she would worry if she knew what he planned than he was afraid she would insist upon looking into the palantír herself.

It was a short distance to the passage that connected the great hall to the kitchens and servants' quarters. There he found Gimli waiting for him, half-concealed behind a cluster of narrow pillars. The Dwarf grunted as he approached.

"There you are. I was beginning to think that you'd got snared as well." He glanced back down the passage toward the light and noise of the hall. "He does it deliberately, you know."

"I'm sorry?" Faramir said.

Gimli smiled and started up the narrow corridor, Faramir falling in alongside him. "Legolas. He can just about disappear when he wants to, so you'd never know he was there. You've seen him do that plenty of times, I'm sure. But then other times, when for whatever reason he doesn't want to blend, he can make it so you can't look away from him. Like Aragorn not noticing when you left. Elf magic, I suppose you'd call it, though he'd deny it if you asked him."

"You've seen him do this before?"

Gimli shrugged. "Not often. Most times he'd rather not be noticed, like I said." He glanced sidelong at Faramir. "Let's make it worth his while, shall we?"

Faramir nodded. He led the way swiftly through the back passages of the citadel, avoiding the main hallways but winding ever closer to the Tower. He had spent hours exploring these hidden corridors as a boy, playing games of pirates and soldiers with Boromir. This was not the first time that experience had served him well.

They reached the junction with the corridor that led to the Tower without being seen. Faramir thought he saw a glimmer of new respect in Gimli's eyes when they finally halted before the turn down the Tower passage.

"Well done, lad." Gimli spoke in a gruff whisper. "First part accomplished, eh?"

Faramir felt a warm rush of satisfaction at the praise, but he shook his head. "There's still the guard."

"Aye." Gimli glanced at the junction and then back at Faramir. "Just leave him to me." He paused, studying Faramir for a moment. "It's a risk you're taking, you know that. If we're right about what that rock's doing to Aragorn, what that other one did to your father . . ."

"I know," Faramir said.

Gimli nodded once, a mere jerk of his chin. "Right. Don't muck it up."

With that he turned and strode briskly around the corner and down the passage to the Tower door. Faramir held his breath, listening to the ring of Gimli's boots on the stone flags.

A moment later the guard called a challenge. Faramir recognized the deep voice: it was Grilfon, who had served in his father's personal guard. A broad-shouldered, stoic and powerful swordsman, he had been one of Boromir's favorite sparring partners. And he had served in Denethor's retinue on the day of the pyre. Faramir released a slow breath. He would not think about that now.

Gimli answered the guard, speaking casually as if he had simply bumped into Grilfon while on a stroll. "I was just stretching my legs a bit. Terribly dull things, those banquets, aren't they? Do you have many of them around here?"

"I'm afraid so, my lord. Sir, you aren't allowed back here."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't know." There was the tramp of boots coming back up the passage, and then they stopped. Gimli coughed. "Er, you wouldn't mind showing me the way back to the great hall, would you? I guess I've come rather farther than I intended, and you know how these citadels are, the corridors all look alike."

Grilfon seemed to hesitate. "I really can't leave my post, sir."

"I know, I know," Gimli said hastily. "You needn't come far, just if you could get me to the main stairway I'd appreciate it. Otherwise I'm apt to be wandering around here for hours."

"It's just up this hall, sir, you take the third left and then right and down the side stair until you come to the landing with a painting of Elendil, and then it's another left turn . . ." Grilfon sighed. "That's all right sir. I'll show you."

"Thank you lad!" Gimli said. Faramir held his breath, but Gimli and the guard walked straight past the darkened servants' passage without pause. "I do appreciate it." Then Gimli coughed again. "Ah, you won't tell the Elf about this, will you? Lord Legolas? Or the King either, if you don't mind. Getting lost in Aragorn's house . . . I'd never hear the end of it."

"No, sir," Grilfon answered wearily. Faramir listened as the sound of their footsteps faded away. It occurred to him, as the hall fell to silence, that Gimli must have known exactly where the main stairway was in relation to the Tower and which was the most direct route to get there, else he would not have risked Grilfon coming back down the passage where Faramir waited.

Faramir counted slowly to twenty, until he was certain that they were gone. Then he took a deep breath and stepped out into the hall. His heart was pounding as he approached the Tower door. He fumbled with the lock, the key skittering over the metal before it finally slid into place. The lock clicked, and the door swung open on silent hinges.

A narrow stair climbed away into the shadows. Swallowing hard, Faramir returned the key to his pocket and started forward, pulling the door shut behind him. Partway up the spiral stair he found a small torch mounted against the wall. Taking it from its bracket, he noted that it was well supplied with oil and saw the long stain of soot trailing up the wall above it. At least their theory was confirmed to this extent. Aragorn came here often.

He climbed slowly, holding the torch high. The light flickered over the smoothly worn stair as it wound upward, shadows leaping away as he passed a narrow window. Yet he could feel no draft against his skin. It was as if something were pressing down upon him, a weight that grew with every step he took. The air seemed too thick and close to breathe.

Finally he reached the top of the stair and stopped, his chest heaving. There was power here. He could feel it, and his torch flickered, small and weak under its suffocating pressure.

Steeling himself as if for an attack, he slipped the key into the small door's lock. It did not move. Faramir's throat was dry, and a wild thought came to him: Elessar had made two locks! He could not open this one! In a flare of panic he tried again, and felt a surge of relief as the latch caught. It turned, and the door's hinges creaked as he pushed it open.

Faramir took a single step into the dark chamber, and then it hit. Raw power surged over him in a wave, and he staggered. His arm sagged, dipping his torch toward the floor. Pinprick lights swirled before his eyes as his head swam.

For a long moment he stood there, clutching the open doorway for support. But gradually the force lessened, and he lifted his head. His hair had fallen forward over his eyes, and his torch had gone out. Yet as his vision cleared he found that he could see well enough.

A bare window faced the east, and the moonlight filtered through it to fall upon a plain wooden table, empty save for a single lump in its center covered by a grey cloth. Faramir knew what was under that cloth. A wooden chair was set before the table. The rest of the chamber was empty, bare stone walls enclosing a circle some twenty feet in diameter.

Faramir walked slowly toward the palantír, his boot heels clicking a dull rhythm that sounded flat in the dead air. His legs were weak from the resonance of power in this room, but his mind was clear, focused. He knew, in every fiber of his being, that this was right. Whatever dark force had ensnared his King and brought his country to the brink of war, he would vanquish it. He could not fail.

He threw back the cloth from the palantír. Something pulsed in the air as he did so, like the soundless beat of a vast drum. He turned his face away, swallowing hard, and then slowly dragged his gaze back to the sphere before him.

The palantír was dark. It lay, mute and empty in the pale moonbeam, but no glint of light reflected off its black crystal. Faramir reached forward and gently touched it with his fingertips. The crystal surface was cold, so cold that it burned against his skin. But the depths of the sphere remained utterly black.

Faramir had a sudden, heart-wrenching thought: his father had spent years learning to master the palantír of Minas Tirith. Those were years that Faramir did not have. It had to work _now._

"Show me," he said aloud, not knowing if the words would help, not knowing where to concentrate. The palantír did not change. He might as well have been talking to a stone.

In something close to desperation he gripped the palantír with both hands, bending close over the black globe. His voice was strained, harsh but growing louder as he spoke.

"_Show me._ I am Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. The blood of Westernesse flows in my veins, and I order you now, show me! Reveal yourself to me!"

Something changed. Faramir felt it shift, a strange doubling sensation in his mind, as if his will were somehow caught and reflected back at him. Fire swirled in the depths of the palantír and Faramir jerked his hands away, startled. Then, afraid that he would lose whatever connection had brought the palantír to life, he took it again, lightly pressing his fingertips against the crystal.

The fire grew to fill the globe, but there was no heat. If anything it felt colder than ever to Faramir's touch. Then the fire cleared to reveal . . . a room. A tiny darkened chamber, empty but for a man standing bent over a table. Faramir stared. It was himself. He was looking at himself.

Frowning, he thought quickly. When his father had used the palantír it had shown him all manner of places, the Enemy's movements, the armies massing against Gondor. But it had been under Sauron's control then. Now, with no will to control it but Faramir's, it was simply reflecting his location.

All right, then. So he could use it. Now all he had to do was look in the right place, to find whoever or whatever had laid hold of King Elessar. Faramir felt his lips stretch in a humorless grin. "Right," he muttered aloud. "Easy as giving gold to a dragon."

Well, he had to start somewhere. "Haradhur," he said to the palantír. Nothing happened. Faramir took a breath, frowning as he tried to concentrate, remembering the descriptions that he had read of the desert city. "Haradhur." This time the image flickered a little, but then stabilized unchanged.

Faramir sighed. His head was beginning to ache with the effort at concentration. Perhaps he should start with something a bit closer to home. Closing his eyes, he visualized the great hall. The long tables laden with meat and drink, the minstrels playing upon the dais in the center, the tapestries upon the walls and the haze of smoke from the torches.

Slowly he opened his eyes. There in the palantír was the hall, exactly as he had pictured it. Concentrating hard, he shifted the focus to the King's table at the head. There was Éowyn, her hair shining in the candlelight as she leaned over to talk to Lothíriel. There was Éomer, and Queen Arwen beside him.

Faramir's breath caught. The chair between Éomer and Arwen, King Elessar's chair, was empty. For a moment he stood frozen, staring at it, and then he jerked upright. The palantír went dark as he released it, backing away from the table, and at that moment a hand closed upon his shoulder from behind.

"Lord Faramir," Elessar said, and Faramir closed his eyes. The King's grip tightened, sending a flare of pain down Faramir's arm. "Whatever have you been doing?"


	17. What Price You Pay

**A/N:** Warning: this one is dark. Very dark. There is no explicitly sexual material, but there are some sexual undertones and some small violence. Ultimately, it's all about power.

This chapter is dedicated to Nightwing, who was concerned that she'd missed some scenes of tension between Legolas and Aragorn during the three weeks between the Council meeting and Faramir's looking in the palantir. She requested flashbacks. She got them.

"Et tu, Brutus?"

– William Shakespeare

Chapter 16: What Price You Pay

"Lord Faramir," Elessar said, and Faramir closed his eyes. The King's grip tightened, sending a flare of pain down Faramir's arm. "Whatever have you been doing?"

_Two weeks before_

Legolas stood upon the archery field in the sixth circle of Minas Tirith, watching as the targets were dragged into position. The stationary butts used by Men presented little challenge for an archer of Eryn Lasgalen, but he had adapted as best he could. When the targets were in place against the far wall he lifted a hand. A boy stationed half way down the field saw the motion and whistled to his fellows.

Legolas waited until the squires had cleared the field, grinning and nudging one another as they did so. A small circle of onlookers had grown around the edges, drawn by the promise of something unusual. Legolas could hear the muttered exchanges – "What's he playing at? You can't hardly see the butts at that distance, much less hit 'em." "Maybe he doesn't want us to know if he misses." Legolas ignored them.

He was more interested in the noises audible behind the observers' conversation: clangs of steel and the occasional muffled grunt from the fencing grounds. It had taken some effort to persuade Aragorn that the court could take an early recess, and that the messages in his office could wait an hour or two while he took some air. Aragorn had not been convinced. It was only after Legolas had suggested that perhaps the King was feeling the burden of his advancing years and would prefer a nap that Aragorn had pushed aside the parchments with an oath and stomped out to the practice fields.

By the sound of things Aragorn was putting to rest any suspicions of his skills on the battlefield. The crowd around the fencing ground was much larger than that behind Legolas, and in the past half hour the King had vanquished two men-at-arms and looked to dispatch a third one shortly.

Legolas bent his bow and strung it. The squires were watching him with eager anticipation. He reached back to brush his fingers over the arrows in his quiver, then drew one easily and fitted it to the string. There was a shout from the fencing ground and a smattering of applause. Legolas looked at the nearest boy and nodded.

With a cry the boy drew an apple from the bag at his feet and threw it across the field. Legolas fired and had the next arrow to the string before the second boy reacted. The third was faster, and their two apples crossed the field almost simultaneously. Legolas compensated smoothly, ignoring the third apple as he tracked the second in its descending arc. The second shot had scarcely left the bow when he fired the third, dropping to one knee to catch the apple on an ascending trajectory just before it touched the high grass.

The entire exercise took less than ten seconds. There was a moment's stunned silence behind him, and then the babble of conversation broke out again. Legolas could hear wagers being exchanged, with the result that several Men loped down the field along with the boys to check what Legolas could already see: the three targets, each with the center ring pierced by an arrow upon which an apple was neatly spitted.

"Showing off again, are you?" Legolas turned. Aragorn stood at his shoulder, dressed in fencing leathers. His tunic was open at the collar, and his face and hair were streaked with sweat. His grey eyes sparkled in amusement.

Legolas raised an eyebrow in his best impression of Lord Elrond, pitching his voice with cool disbelief at the suggestion. "Of course not, my lord. I was merely . . . warming up."

Aragorn laughed. Legolas' heart leapt at the sound, for it was Aragorn's old laugh, easy and free of care. He smiled in return, studying his friend closely. But Aragorn was relaxed, and there was no hint of the shadow in his eyes as he smiled. The lines of strain about his eyes and mouth were almost hidden by the weathering of wind and sun.

He was improving, Legolas thought. The fresh air helped, and Legolas blessed each day that presented some excuse to draw Aragorn outside, whether to inspect Gimli's improvements to the city walls, or go hunting to add provisions for the army, or to exercise his fighting skills. Slowly, Aragorn was growing better with each day.

Legolas did not care to think about the nights.

Aragorn looked down the field to where the group of Men and boys were coming back, carrying Legolas' arrows and talking excitedly together. "And now that you've warmed up, Lord Legolas, might I interest you in a proper challenge? Or perhaps you prefer to practice only what you know."

Legolas glanced at the sword Aragorn held and repressed a sigh. He was adequate with a sword, for an Elf, but it was not his best weapon and Aragorn knew it. But if the King wished a match then so be it. Aragorn had laughed today, as Legolas had not heard him do in far too long, and Legolas would have gladly suffered far worse than defeat in a fencing match to hear him laugh again.

They walked back to the fencing ground together, Legolas inspecting his arrows as they went. Aragorn rolled his shoulders to loosen them, swinging his sword idly as he walked. It was not Andúril, of course, but one of the blunted swords from the practice sheds. That at least was one point in Legolas' favor. Aragorn was used to the range and heft of a longer sword, and one of Elven make at that. He would be off balance.

Legolas took his time in laying aside his own weapons and selecting a sword from the rack. They were all crafted for Men, of course, and felt heavy and awkward in Legolas' hands. Finally he took the lightest one he could find, grimacing at its unwieldy balance.

He joined Aragorn in the center of the large ring marked by rocks in the grass, swinging the sword around his hand as he did so. A few stragglers had gathered around the edge of the field, watching with interest.

Aragorn brought his sword up in salute, and Legolas returned the gesture before slipping into guard position. Aragorn slowly circled him, and Legolas turned to match his movement. Aragorn's sword flicked out and Legolas blocked it easily, and then brought his own sword in a swift low arc, forcing Aragorn to jump back. Aragorn smiled.

"Not bad, mellon nîn. You may find your true calling yet."

Legolas shrugged, not dropping his guard for an instant. "Perhaps. Although Gimli –" he dodged as Aragorn lunged forward and their swords clashed with a ring of steel "– insists that I would do better with an axe." He pushed Aragorn back a step, freeing his sword and dropping back into guarding stance. A wisp of hair fell over his eyes and he brushed it aside. "It would give more power, he claims."

"Hmph. He would." Aragorn struck hard to the left, and Legolas stepped forward, sweeping Aragorn's blade to the side and moving inside his reach. He hooked one foot behind Aragorn's and jerked the hilt of his own sword into the Man's face. Instinctively Aragorn tried to jump back, stumbled over Legolas' heel, and landed heavily on the grass. A murmur of voices rose from the watching crowd.

Legolas started to laugh, but broke off abruptly upon seeing Aragorn's face. The King's cheeks were flushed with mingled exertion and embarrassment, and he glowered up at the Elf. His mouth was set in a way that Legolas recognized from the occasions when he had bested Estel in their training sessions. But Aragorn had outgrown those fits of pique years ago.

Ignoring Legolas' outstretched hand, Aragorn pushed to his feet. "What are you playing at?"

Legolas was taken aback, but he answered calmly. "It's a simple technique –"

"Simple! You cheated!"

Legolas' hand tightened upon his sword's hilt. His eyes narrowed as he met Aragorn's furious gaze. "No one," he said, "in all my life, _no one_ has _ever_ questioned my honor in combat before. I respectfully suggest that you rethink your words, _King Elessar._"

Aragorn's eyes flickered, but he didn't back down. "That 'simple technique' might be common in Rivendell, Legolas, but we are in _Gondor_ now. You will fight me according to the customs of _Men._"

Legolas' jaw clenched. "I see," he said shortly. "Shall I then also be blindfolded, and have my ears muffled and my reflexes dulled to those of Men, lord King? Or perhaps I should have weights tied to my hands and feet to slow my movements."

Aragorn looked away, his hands fisted at his sides. He was silent for a long moment, and then drew a slow breath. He straightened, some of the tension easing from his shoulders as he deliberately relaxed his hands. "I didn't mean that," he said. "I'm sorry, Legolas."

Legolas sighed, feeling his own anger ebb away. Whatever might be affecting Aragorn, he thought, it surely could not make him any more exasperating than he already was. He dipped his head in acknowledgement of the apology and lifted his sword. "Shall we begin again?" In a half-hearted jest he added, "I promise to make allowance for Men's limited abilities."

Aragorn snorted. Catching up his own sword, he stepped back into a flawless guard stance. His jaw was set, and there was no humor in his eyes as he looked at Legolas. "You do that," he said.

When they began again there was no further talk, no time for play. Aragorn attacked furiously, and it took all of Legolas' skill to block him. Aragorn lacked the speed of the Elves, but he had been trained in swordplay by Elladan of Rivendell and he had long ago learned to adapt the Elven teachings to his own strengths as a natural swordsman. Legolas was faster, but Aragorn knew every technique used by both Elves and Men, and Legolas could not match his skill with the sword.

Slowly he was driven back toward the boundary ring of stones, and nine strikes he could block, but the tenth got through, and the back of his hand stung as Aragorn's blade flashed across it. Legolas was acutely aware of the rocks behind him, but try what he might he was being inexorably forced toward them. To step outside would be to forfeit the match.

Then he was at the border, and as Aragorn's sword cut low Legolas leaped up, landing lightly upon two round stones. They shifted under his feet as he swung his sword in an arc toward Aragorn's shoulder. Aragorn whipped his own sword up to block, and the shock as their blades met rolled the stones under Legolas' feet. He twisted as they moved, seeking balance to spring back into the circle, and at that moment Aragorn pulled his sword up, and the blade cut Legolas' cheek.

Legolas recoiled in surprise, and lost his footing completely as the stones skidded from beneath him. He landed hard on the field and lay there, stunned.

Aragorn was standing over him, his sword hanging loosely at his side. Legolas expected him to offer a hand up, but Aragorn did not move. He was breathing hard, and there was a strange light in his eyes as he looked down at the fallen Elf.

Legolas regained his breath. His cheek stung where Aragorn's sword had scratched it, but his pride hurt more. Losing the match did not concern him, but the way Aragorn was staring at him made him acutely conscious of his vulnerable position. Silently he urged the Man to speak, to laugh and help him up and proclaim his victory to all the onlookers. Estel very rarely bested Legolas in any of their competitions, and he had never failed to make the most of it when he did.

But Aragorn remained still. His eyes glittered with some emotion that Legolas could not identify.

"Your match, my lord," Legolas said at last, sitting up.

Aragorn moved then, but he did not pull Legolas to his feet. Instead he knelt down, and reached to touch the Elf's cheek. "You're hurt."

Legolas pulled away instinctively, and then stopped. Aragorn meant no harm by it, he told himself. There was no reason to resist. But his heart was pounding.

He looked hard at Aragorn, trying to see what the Man intended. "It is nothing," he said. "I've suffered worse cuts from my own arrow fletchings."

Aragorn did not answer. His eyes were fixed on Legolas, but their clear grey was clouded. His lips parted as his blunt fingers brushed back the loose tendril of Legolas' hair.

Legolas held absolutely still under the touch. He was frowning, trying to pierce the veil in Aragorn's eyes, to understand what was happening to his friend. Aragorn's fingertips trailed over his skin, and Legolas hissed as he touched the cut along one high cheekbone.

Aragorn sat back. For a moment he looked uncomprehendingly at the blood on his fingertips, and then his eyes seemed to come back into focus.

"Legolas?" Aragorn whispered. His voice was questioning, confused. His brows drew together and he shook his head. "No," he muttered. He shook his head again, as if to clear it, and got to his feet.

Legolas rose swiftly, catching hold of Aragorn's wrist. "Aragorn, what –"

"Don't!" Aragorn cried. He stared at Legolas, his eyes wide and his breath coming in labored gasps. "Valar, Legolas, I didn't mean . . . _no!_"

He broke away, stumbling toward the citadel. The crowd parted to let him pass, a murmur of curiosity rippling in his wake.

Legolas stood alone upon the field and watched him go.

_What was happening? _Aragorn had been improving – he _was _improving. The constant tension, the knife-edged suspicion were fading, and with each day he was a little more relaxed, a little closer to the old friend who Legolas remembered. But at times he would look at Legolas, as he had done now, and in that moment it was as if a stranger were watching him through Aragorn's eyes.

And at night . . . at night Aragorn would return to the Tower. And in the dark hours of early morning Legolas could hear his footsteps pacing the empty corridors of the citadel. The next morning he would be distant, and Legolas could see the shadow behind his eyes as they followed him, looking for . . . what? Some sign of betrayal, Legolas supposed.

It would take Legolas most of the day to bring Aragorn back, to make up the ground he had lost overnight. And he would succeed, even to the point of hearing Aragorn laugh again as he had done today. And then the next night would come, and Aragorn would return to the Tower.

At times Legolas would feel it, a prickling at the back of his neck, as of someone watching him. He would tense, his breath catching in his throat, but it vanished as quickly as it came. And as time passed he would sense it now and again, an intention, a weight of power that turned itself toward him in the late hours of the night. Once he felt it even in the day, alone in the garden as he wrote to his seneschal in Ithilien.

Aragorn was watching him. For what purpose Legolas did not know, but the look in Aragorn's eyes this afternoon made him doubt now that the King was entirely driven by fear of betrayal. Something else was at work in Aragorn's mind.

It was for this reason that the next day, one week after their confrontation in the stables, Legolas sought Faramir out and offered his aid in searching the palantír. He did not know if it were the palantír itself or some other being using it that had so affected Aragorn, but he had seen the struggle in Aragorn's eyes. Whatever it was, whatever it intended, Aragorn was resisting it.

How long could he fight? The balance was so close now, teetering in the dark flicker of Aragorn's eyes, the hesitant touch of his hand. It was so close, and Legolas dared not push any farther, dared not risk losing Aragorn's trust. But Faramir would not be gainsaid. And for the chance to learn who their true enemy was, to learn what Aragorn faced, Legolas was willing to take the Steward's gamble.

*~*~*

"My lord –" Faramir began, but Aragorn cut him off.

"Prying into things that do not concern you," he said. His voice was light, with a singsong quality as if he were chanting a children's rhyme. That chilled Faramir more than any threat could have done.

Elessar's fingers dug painfully into his arm, dragging Faramir around to face him. Faramir lifted his chin, clenching his hands to stop them shaking. He might die here, but he would not be cowed. "As Steward it is my duty to protect you, lord," he said. His throat was dry, his voice a bare whisper above the pounding of his heart. "I –"

Elessar was not listening. His eyes were huge in the dim light, their grey bled to black. They glittered with an insane light as he tipped his head to one side, as if listening to something only he could hear.

"He goes peeking and poking and prying and what does he find?" Elessar half sang the words. "A palantír. And what did you see in the seeing stone, mmm? I wonder. Your master, perhaps? And oh yes, you have much to tell him. Troops and weapons and horses, so much to tell. He must be so pleased with his little spy."

His hand fisted in Faramir's tunic, pulling him close. The singsong quality was gone from his voice when next he spoke, low and menacing. "Doubtless you will be rewarded, _Steward._"

*~*~*

_Three days before_

"But you must know something!"

Legolas sighed. "I know that Aragorn is not yet himself, my lady, but he is closer now than he was three weeks ago. That is something, is it not?"

Arwen threw up her hands in frustration. She could have cheerfully strangled Legolas at this moment, and if he did not give her a straight answer soon she might well make the attempt. Weeks had passed with no word or sign of news save what she could guess from her own infrequent encounters with the King. Now at last she had managed to catch Legolas alone in the citadel library. They had a few minutes at most before the King returned, and the misbegotten Wood-elf was playing word games.

"And the army? Legolas, Éowyn tells me that Éomer King is marching to Gondor now – he will be here in a few days! Aragorn is going to war!"

"Yes," Legolas said. He stepped forward, looking intently into her eyes. "My lady, the situation we discussed before has not changed. I know the stakes we play against. And _that _is why I cannot tell you more."

"_What?_" Arwen hissed. She took a step backward, scarcely able to believe she had heard him properly. "You dare – he is my _husband._ If we are going to save him –"

"No." A muscle flexed in Legolas' jaw. "Arwen, please listen to me. I have done what I can. Aragorn trusts me now as much as he trusts anyone, I think, but he loves you. _We cannot lose that._ Whatever happens, even if he turns against me, he _must _not lose faith in you."

Arwen stared at him for a long moment. "What are you planning?" she whispered. "What could make him . . ." she stopped. She saw the look in his eyes, and swallowed hard. "The palantír," she said. "You're going to look in the palantír."

Legolas shook his head. "No," he said. "I will not. I dare not."

"Then who –" Arwen began, but Legolas caught her hand.

"My lady," he said urgently, "Please. Do not ask me more. Do not seek to learn more. For Aragorn's sake, for your child's sake, please heed me in this. Events are planned that may unmask the enemy we face, but however they play out I fear it will not be to Aragorn's good." He searched her face, his eyes pleading. "The danger to him is great, and I alone may not be able to bring him back. If we are to save him then _you must not be involved_."

Arwen closed her eyes, gripping Legolas' fingers in her own. "There must be something I can do," she said. She hated how weak her voice sounded, how ineffectual. "Legolas, please. I cannot bear it any longer."

She heard him sigh, and then his arms were around her and he pulled her close to him. Her cheek was against his tunic, and she felt the strength of him, the lean muscle of his chest and arms, so gentle now as he held her. His hand was stroking her hair.

"Wait a little longer," Legolas murmured, bowing his head over hers. "A few more days, Arwen, please. Wait a little longer."

Arwen clutched at his shoulders, breathing in the clean scent of him, overlaid with the leather of his tunic and the dry wood and parchment smell of the library. The sun was shining through the long windows to the south, warm upon her back as he held her.

"Very well," she said at last, tasting the words bitter upon her tongue. "I will wait."

Legolas stepped back. "Thank you, my lady," he murmured. There was no trace of victory in his eyes as he looked at her, and she took some small comfort in that. At least he took no pleasure in excluding her.

He bowed and kissed her hand. Then releasing her he walked toward the library door.

"Legolas," Arwen called, just as he reached it. His hair flashed gold in the sunlight as he turned. She met his eyes, and swallowed. "Aragorn," she began, and faltered. The distance between them seemed suddenly very great, her voice lost in the long rows of shelves around them. "He comes to me, some nights, but he –" she broke off.

Legolas was watching her. She felt her cheeks heat under his gaze, but she did not look away. How could she describe those strange, fumbling encounters, Aragorn's hands upon her suddenly withdrawn, pulling back as if she burned him. The apologies, muttered as he drew away, not looking at her. The shift of clothes in the dark, the clink of a belt buckle fastened.

"My lady," Legolas said softly, and looking into his eyes she believed that he knew everything she had been thinking. "Arwen. It is the shadow. Something is making him do this, but he is resisting it. _Estel is fighting it._ It will not claim him in the end."

Inclining his head to her he pushed the door open behind him, and was gone. Arwen leaned forward, bracing her hands against a heavy oak reading table as she released a long breath. _Estel is fighting it._ And perhaps they would bring him back to himself. But, she wondered, at what cost? How could they ever return to the way things were before?

*~*~*

"My lord," Faramir said quickly. His heart was racing, his mouth was dry and his limbs felt leaden and weak. "Please, I meant no harm, I only –"

Elessar gripped his tunic with both hands. His breath was hot against Faramir's ear, his voice a grating snarl. "_You lie._"

He shoved him back. Faramir staggered, his thigh striking the edge of the table with bruising force. Faramir clutched it to steady himself and looked up at the King, panting. He had to make Elessar believe him.

Desperately he looked full into the King's eyes, willing him to remember. Aragorn _knew _him! Despite it all, Legolas' warnings and Imrahil's counsel and his own bitter history, Faramir could not believe that Aragorn would think him a traitor.

He looked into the eyes of his friend, his King, and moaned in despair. For Elessar's eyes were black. Looking at them was looking into the murderous gaze of a stranger. There was no sign there of the man Faramir had grown to respect, even to love.

The wild thought came to him: he was going to have to fight. His whole soul rebelled at the thought of striking his King, but deep within him a primitive force welled up, and that force was bound to no love save one. _Éowyn._ Unconsciously he rose to the balls of his feet.

But even as he did so Faramir knew it was hopeless. He had no weapon. And as Elessar's hand tightened upon the hilt of his sword, Faramir knew that he was going to die.

*~*~*

_Forty minutes before_

Legolas knew the moment that Aragorn sensed Faramir's use of the palantír. They were seated around the high table, Aragorn leaning close to Éomer as they spoke animatedly together. Éomer was in high spirits, pleased with his riders and the speed they had made on the journey to Gondor. He was also, Legolas suspected, spoiling for a fight. The young King had been unsettled by Elessar's talk of hidden spies, and was eager to face the enemy upon an open battlefield.

Éowyn, sitting a bit further down the table, looked nearly as excited as her brother. She wore a silver mesh vest that gleamed upon her shoulders like armor, and her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling as she looked around the great hall.

Arwen sat more sedately at her side, her midnight hair intricately knotted at the base of her neck and a silver circlet gracing her brow. The skirt of her gown was tied high under her breasts and a loosely flowing cloak fell from her shoulders. Legolas still could not quite believe that the flimsy disguise worked, but the mortals around them seemed genuinely unaware of the Queen's pregnancy. Even Aragorn remained oblivious, and Legolas could see the knowledge of that in Arwen's eyes, mingled pain and relief as she watched her husband.

For his part Aragorn was calm. Some of the nervous tension had gone from him at Éomer's arrival, and now he was confident and grimly purposeful, as he always was when the waiting was over and battle was at hand. Alone of the company he was dressed for war with a chain mail vest beneath his red surcoat and Andúril belted at his hip.

Most of his attention was already given to the discussion of tactics with Éomer. It took little effort for Legolas to keep it there, merely a nudge when he saw Gimli get up from the table. Aragorn had been leaning back in his chair, nodding as Éomer traced a route on the wooden planks farther inland from the spill of gravy that they had designated the Bay of Belfalas. Legolas was mildly relieved that they would not, after all, be traveling along the seashore from Dol Amroth. It probably would make little difference in any case, but the longing was easier to control when he could not actually see the ocean waves.

A bit more effort was required when Faramir got up to follow Gimli a short time later. Legolas leaned forward to make a comment, gesturing with one hand, and Aragorn turned to look at him. Legolas sat back again as Faramir vanished down the servants' passage. He could feel the tips of his ears heat as he met Aragorn's gaze.

He had avoided calling attention to himself in the weeks following their fencing match. He was constantly in Aragorn's company, that was necessary, but he strove to remain in the background, unnoticed. And yet Aragorn watched him. Often in the course of the day Legolas would feel a searching gaze upon him, and turn to see Aragorn looking at him, his eyes alight with . . . what? Curiosity, wonder . . . desire.

It made no sense. Aragorn knew him better than any mortal ever had, and he had never before looked at Legolas as he did now. He had never looked at _Arwen _as he looked at Legolas now. It was not love that Legolas saw in his eyes, not physical desire or even the baser lusts of Men. It was a longing for something that Legolas could not name, for some control or power that he did not understand.

Aragorn had not touched him since that day upon the fencing ground. But Legolas could see the struggle in his eyes, the temptation ruthlessly mastered, the desire barred by Aragorn's steely self-control. And it seemed cruel, now, to play upon his friend's weakness, holding his attention while Faramir escaped.

Legolas was aware of Arwen watching him. She must know what he was doing. She must sense the razor-edged game that he played. He dared not meet her eyes. He did not dare to shift his focus from Aragorn even for a moment.

He had never really understood why some mortals were so susceptible to these small tricks of the mind. He thought perhaps it had something to do with their unique perception of Ilúvatar's Song – they were not bound to Ennor as the Eldar were, and their minds were somehow less attuned to their surroundings. They were simple to manipulate, particularly if they were unaware that they could be manipulated.

But Aragorn had been raised in Rivendell, and had long been imbued with an almost Elven awareness of himself and his surroundings. He had never succumbed to such tricks before. It was a mark of how much he had changed that he did so now, and Legolas watched him with sorrow for what his friend had lost.

It could not last. Faramir had been gone less than twenty minutes when Aragorn stiffened suddenly in his chair. His eyes widened as he drew a hissing breath, and he whipped around to stare down the table toward the Steward's empty seat.

Legolas was on his feet even as Aragorn shoved back his chair. The others jumped up hastily, their voices rising in confusion, but Aragorn ignored them. He turned and strode from the hall without a word.

Arwen started after him. Legolas swore a Dwarven curse under his breath and, throwing caution to the winds, vaulted directly over the table to stop her. She whirled as he grabbed her arm, and he caught her free wrist before she could strike.

"Arwen, no!" He shook her a little, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her grey eyes were bright as edged steel. "You must not! Please!"

She glared at him, and then subsided. He released her as her shoulders slumped, and she stepped back. "Go then," she said. "Save him, if you can."

Legolas nodded, and ran.

Arwen turned to face the guests, and her head lifted as her back straightened and her shoulders squared. "The King regrets that he has been called away," she said clearly. "Doubtless it is a minor matter, and he will correct it shortly. Please, let us not allow our evening together to be disturbed."

She seated herself, and with some hesitation the others followed suit. Lothíriel leaned across the table, frowning. "My lady," she began.

Arwen shook her head. "It is nothing," she said.

"But Lord Legolas –"

Arwen forced a small laugh. "Oh, that. Really, I've told him before that the furniture is not for climbing upon, but will he listen? Typical Wood-elf behavior, I fear."

Éomer stood irresolute, and exchanged a glance with his wife. "Queen Undómiel," he began, "Perhaps I could assist . . ."

Arwen turned a brittle smile upon him. "No, I think not, my lord," she said. "Please, join me."

She inclined her head toward Éomer's chair, and reluctantly he sat down. "Now," Arwen said, brushing aside the salt from the bowl that Legolas had knocked over in his leap across the table, "do tell me more about this route you plan to take from Dol Amroth. Are you certain that it won't be too marshy for the horses?"

*~*~*

_Three minutes before_

Legolas flew through the citadel corridors. He could hear Aragorn's feet pounding some distance ahead of him, taking the most direct route to the Tower. He had no plan: no idea of what he could say when he caught him. But catch him he must.

He flashed past guards and servants alike, all too startled to intercept him. Gimli was on the main stair, frozen in mid-step. "Legolas!" he shouted. "Aragorn –"

"I know," Legolas said. He started up the stairs three at a time and then, finding that too slow, sprang up to run along the stone railing. "Go back to the main hall," he called as he raced past. "Don't let any of them follow him!"

He did not wait to see if Gimli listened. Faster he ran, leaping from the railing when the stair ended. He passed over the stone flags like wind over summer grass, and still it was not fast enough.

Another stair, narrower this time, and down a dark passage, and there was the Tower door open and empty spiral stair beyond. A powerful looking guard stood looking up the stairs. He was much too slow, barely registering Legolas' presence before the Elf was past him and gone.

But even as Legolas reached the stairs the wave of the palantír's power struck him like a blow, and he staggered. He reeled back against the stone wall, panting. Black stars broke across his vision, and he swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that rose in his throat.

And he was only at the foot of the Tower! Aragorn was above him – inside the room with the palantír itself!

_Morgoth take all Men,_ Legolas swore silently. Slowly the vertigo receded, and he began to climb. With their limited perceptions and their dulled senses – how could Aragorn not feel it? How could he subject himself to this, night after night, and not _know _what it was doing to him?

He forced himself on, moving faster now. But the power dragged at him like a net weighted with lead, and he knew that he was too late.

*~*~*

_Now_

Elessar clasped his scabbard in one hand and drew his sword in a sweeping, deadly arc that would bring the blade through Faramir's neck in a single blow.

A hand closed upon his wrist, stopping the sword before it was a quarter drawn from its sheath.

For a long moment Faramir stood frozen, staring at the dull gleam of the sword, the locked tension in Elessar's arm and the white hand clamped upon his wrist. Slowly, not daring to breathe, he turned his head.

Legolas stood at Elessar's side. He was straight and still, and only the faintest trembling of his forearm gave any hint of the strain as he held Elessar motionless. An eternity passed in silence, and then slowly Elessar's fingers unlocked from Andúril's hilt. The sword fell back into its sheath with a quiet _snick_, and Faramir's heart began to beat again.

Legolas sighed and released Elessar's wrist. "Aragorn," he began, but the King cut him off.

"You knew," Elessar said. His voice was laced with exhaustion and sorrow so deep it struck Faramir to the core. The King looked from him to Legolas, and Faramir saw that his eyes were still black, a stranger's eyes. There was pain in them, true, but far greater than that there was fury.

He opened his mouth to warn Legolas, but the Elf was too quick for him. "I knew that you were disturbed," Legolas said, stepping to the side so that he faced Elessar. "I followed you –"

Elessar struck him. The blow caught Legolas full across the cheek, and he rocked with the force of it. "_You lie!_" the King snarled. His chest heaved, and he drew a harsh breath that sounded like a sob. "You – all of you – you lie, _you lie –_"

He struck again, blindly. Legolas caught his fist one-handed, forcing him to still. The Elf's face was white, and blood trickled from one corner of his mouth. Elessar fought for a moment longer and then subsided, shaking.

Legolas drew a slow breath. "No, my lord," he said. "I have not lied to you. I have never lied to you."

Elessar closed his eyes. Faramir glanced at Legolas, but the Elf ignored him. The full intensity of his Elven concentration was focused on the King.

Slowly Elessar lifted his head. "I am betrayed," he whispered. "Spies in my own household, conspiring against me –"

"No," Legolas said.

"_Yes!_" Elessar shouted. "Valar, Legolas – you will stand here before me and tell me that it is not true, when I have seen him with my own eyes!" He flung a hand out, pointing at Faramir.

"I will," Legolas said. "My lord, I see no evidence of betrayal. Lord Faramir was concerned for you, and did only what he thought best –"

"What he thought best?" Elessar laughed, and Faramir wished that he could stop his ears against the sound. He had once heard a madman laugh so. "_What he thought best?_ And you, my friend, are you so duped by him as well? Will you then stand by and let him sell Gondor to the enemy, _because he thinks it best?_"

"He has not –"

"_He has!_" Elessar cried. He whirled on Faramir, his hand going to his sword. "And for that he shall die."

"Without a trial?" Legolas demanded. He moved to block Elessar, standing between Faramir and the King. "My lord, if you are so certain that he is in the wrong then let charges be brought against him! Let him stand trial, and let justice be done upon him!"

Elessar shook his head. "There is no time," he said. His voice was set with deadly purpose as he looked at Faramir. "Stand aside, Legolas."

Faramir moved back into the center of the room, not looking away from the King's eyes. He had once sworn to live and die for this man, and though Elessar as he now was bore little resemblance to the man he remembered, he would not betray that oath.

"I serve at my King's command," he said, hearing his voice distant and toneless in the cold air. Slowly he dropped to his knees. His heart was pounding so that his whole body seemed to pulse with it.

Elessar took a step toward him, but Legolas caught his arm. "Estel, _think,_" he said. "Who will rule the country in your absence? What will Éomer say? Will you have him join forces with a murderer? This is not justice!"

Elessar jerked free of Legolas' grasp. He took another slow step forward, his left hand going to his scabbard as his right tightened on Andúril's hilt.

"Estel, please!" Legolas circled quickly to block him, catching Elessar by the shoulders. He stared into the King's eyes. "I know you are there," he said. "I know you can hear me. Can you not feel what is happening to you? You must fight it!"

Elessar started to pull away, but Legolas moved with him. His hand tightened on Elessar's shoulder, forcing him to still. "_Garo estel ned nin_," he murmured. "_Im si nesto gen, mellon nin._"1

Aragorn shuddered, and released his sword. His eyes closed as his hand came up to the back of Legolas' neck, pressing their foreheads together. For a long moment they were still, and Faramir stared, not knowing what to do.

Then Aragorn's hand tightened, twining in Legolas' hair. The merest flicker of pain crossed Legolas' face, but he did not move.

"Swear to me," Aragorn said hoarsely. "Swear to me, Legolas, that I can trust you."

For the briefest of moments Legolas seemed to hesitate, and Faramir caught his breath. Then the Elf spoke. "I swear, my lord," he said.

Aragorn's shoulders shook, and his hand fisted tighter behind Legolas' neck. "And Arwen?"

This time Legolas did not hesitate. "She had nothing to do with this, my lord. Estel, please. She loves you."

The King's voice was like a sob. "_Nin melich?_"2

"_Gerech veleth nin, gwador nin,_" Legolas whispered.3

Aragorn shuddered again, and his hand fell limply from Legolas' hair. Slowly he straightened, and stepped back. As his eyes opened Faramir saw that the black glitter had gone. Aragorn's eyes were dark, the pupils fully dilated in the dim light, but they were his own again.

He blinked, seeming dazed, and looked about as if awakening from a dream. "Guards," he murmured, and then more loudly, "Guards!"

As the tramp of footsteps sounded from below he turned to Faramir. "Faramir son of Denethor," he said, "you are hereby charged with espionage and conspiracy to sell the secrets of Gondor's war preparations to the enemy. You will be held in the dungeons of this citadel until such time as you stand trial and evidence is heard against you upon our return from Harad."

He swallowed. Legolas was studying him, frowning, but he did not protest. Elessar took a deep breath. "Until our return, the care of Gondor shall pass to our Queen, Arwen Undómiel. May she rule with our love, and keep the land safe from our enemies."

He stepped back as the guard entered, looking questioningly from Faramir to the King. Faramir got to his feet, feeling light headed. Elessar nodded to the guard. "Lord Faramir is under arrest, Grilfon. His keys and staff of office are to be confiscated, and you will take him to a holding cell immediately."

Grilfon's eyes widened in surprise, but he made an admirable recovery. "Aye, my lord," he said.

Faramir did not wait for the guard's hand to close upon his arm. "At your service, Your Majesty," he said, and bowed. Turning upon his heel, he walked to the door, hearing Grilfon fall in behind him.

After they had gone, Aragorn sighed deeply and turned to Legolas. He met his friend's watchful gaze, seeing the loose tangle of his hair, the beading of blood at his lip. A wave of sorrow washed over him, and he half lifted his hand, wanting to wipe away the evidence of his transgression.

Legolas' eyes flickered, but he did not move. Aragorn stopped, and let his hand fall to his side. "May the Valar have mercy on us all."

* * *

1 _Garo estel ned nin_. _Im si nesto gen, mellon nin._ Trust in me. I'm here to heal you, my friend.

2 _Nin melich?_ Have I your love?

3 _Gerech veleth nin, gwador nin_ You have my love, my brother.


	18. Faramir's Discovery

And so you see I have come to doubt  
All that I once held as true  
I stand alone without beliefs  
The only truth I know is you.

– Paul Simon

Chapter 17: Faramir's Discovery

The dungeons of Minas Tirith were not bad, as such things went. Built deep within the fastness of Mount Mindolluin, the citadel prisons were well insulated from both the heat of summer and the winter's cold. Narrow shafts pierced the mountainside through which fresh air and occasional rays of sunlight filtered. The cells themselves were carved from the living rock and barred with iron that showed no sign of rust or neglect. No implements of torture were displayed here, and the prison quarters were clean and dry and their straw was fresh.

Legolas hated the place on sight. His stomach clenched as he followed the guard's flickering torch down the narrow stone corridor. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, trying to block out the stale reek of unwashed bodies all around him. He wished that he could close his ears to the low murmurs that filtered from the depths, forgotten voices too faint for mortal hearing.

There was nothing in his experience to prepare him for this. Gimli had taxed him in the early days of the Fellowship over Glóin's confinement in the Elvenking's halls, but the truth was that Greenwood's storerooms had never been intended to hold prisoners. The very concept was alien to the Silvan Elves, and their Sindarin rulers had swiftly adapted to their adopted people's custom.

Legolas could think of only a handful of occasions over the centuries when an Elf had broken the forest law. In every case discipline had been meted out by the community leaders without troubling their King. As for the other, few strangers trespassed in Thranduil's realm. There were agents of the Enemy, Orcs and spiders, yes. But the Elves killed those on sight, and did not bother with capture. The few Men or Dwarves who strayed into the wood were brought to the stronghold for questioning, and once their intentions were known they were escorted to the border for the rulers of Laketown or Erebor to deal with.

Occasionally a storeroom might be cleaned to hold problematic guests, as had been done with Thorin's party, and Gollum. But such was done of necessity and was never intended to be _permanent._ To be locked away for months, even years, in a cage of stone and iron was beyond Legolas' imagining. It was, for a Wood-elf, tantamount to a death sentence.

Men thought these cells a tribute to Gondor's civilization and mercy. Legolas walked the dark passages, and fought not to gag. Shadows leered in the torchlight. Strange currents stirred in the air as he passed, ghosting cold fingers over his skin. The very walls pressed upon him with the weight of centuries, laden with ages of fear and despair that had leached into their very stone.

The guards had not quite known what to do with Faramir. The King had ordered him imprisoned, but most of the Tower guard had served under him during the War of the Ring, or knew him from their time in the citadel. Rather apologetically they had therefore put him into the largest of the holding cells, near the surface of the mountain. It was as if Faramir's arrest were simply a mistake to be rectified, some minor error that they wished not to be taken too seriously.

There had been very little protest when Legolas arrived, shortly before dawn, and asked to see him. Had there _been _protest, Legolas acknowledged wryly to himself, it would not have mattered overmuch. His patience was stretched near the breaking point, and it would go ill for anyone who wished to gainsay him now.

He had left Aragorn asleep at long last in the Royal Chambers, exhausted beyond endurance by the confrontation in the Tower. Arwen in turn had been shaken by the King's abrupt announcement of her rule in Faramir's stead, and the reason for it, but there was a knowing light in her eyes as she looked at Elessar, and at Legolas. She was shaken, but not surprised. And she had stood as barrier between Aragorn and the clamor of questions from the court, allowing Legolas to get the King away before he collapsed.

It was a temporary reprieve at best. Legolas had seen the fire in Éowyn's eyes when she learned of her husband's fate, and Éomer King had been shocked as well. Even his steadfast loyalty was tested by the events of this night, and Legolas knew that his friend would have to face that eventually. But for now Aragorn slept, and Legolas had business of his own to attend to.

"Lord Faramir," the guard announced, stopping before a heavily barred doorway. "You have a visitor." He inclined his head in a brief bow toward Legolas and left, his footsteps echoing as he retreated down the corridor.

Faramir showed no reaction to the guard's words. He sat in a far corner of the cell upon a narrow ledge of stone. His elbows were propped upon his knees, and his face was buried in his hands. His hair spilled in long locks between his fingers.

Legolas took in the Steward and his surroundings at a glance, his eyes swiftly adjusting to the gloom as the guard's torchlight receded. There was a window shaft close by. Legolas could feel the faint breath of air cool against his cheek, could sense the fading of the stars before the coming light of day. But even his eyes could discern no break in the darkness around them, save that provided by Men.

A few candle stubs guttered in high recesses of the cell, and the widely spaced torches had painted an oily patina upon the corridor walls. Legolas stood motionless, his hands folded behind his back, and watched Faramir in their uncertain light.

It seemed a long time that he waited thus in silence. When at last Faramir spoke his voice was muffled, and he did not look up.

"You saved my life." It was a statement of fact, nothing more. Faramir spoke tonelessly, as though weary beyond the capacity for any emotion.

"I did only as I had promised," Legolas said. He was vaguely aware that his hands had clenched into fists behind his back. He too had been pushed beyond all limits this night, and the anger was hot in his chest. Slowly he breathed in, then out, and deliberately relaxed his hands. "Aragorn chose to spare you."

Faramir groaned. "He did, didn't he? It was a choice he made, to listen to you. Dear Eru, he would have killed me." There was something like wonder in his voice.

Legolas did not answer.

After a moment Faramir continued. "I never truly thought that he would. That is . . . you had warned me, and I should have known, but somehow I . . ." he trailed off. The stone pressed upon them in heavy silence. Faintly in the distance Legolas heard the warble of a thrush's call, and he knew that the sun had risen. But the darkness of the cells remained unchanged.

Faramir straightened, pushing back his hair. His eyes glittered as he looked at Legolas, and his voice was harsh. "I should have known! Valar, of all people I should have known what he was capable of!"

Legolas bit back the sharp retort that sprang to his lips, and spoke quietly. "You were warned of the danger, my lord. I do not see what further knowledge you could have had."

"Don't you, Legolas?" Faramir stood, spreading his hands in a gesture of appeal. "Think you this is the first time I have been subject to the whim of my lord's madness?"

Legolas caught himself before he had taken more than a single pace forward. His voice was level when he spoke, but his words were clipped with the effort of control. "Aragorn is _not _your father, my lord. He has strength greater than –"

He broke off sharply, turning his head to look down the corridor. Faramir frowned, and then his brow cleared as he too heard the coming tramp of boots on the stone. A low muttering announced Gimli's presence well before the Dwarf rounded the bend in the corridor and came striding toward them. But Gimli's companion came in silence, and her arrival drew a small gasp from Faramir.

"Queen Undómiel!"

Arwen nodded curtly in response to Legolas' bow and fixed a cool gaze upon Faramir. "Tell me everything."

Faramir hesitated. "Your Majesty, this is hardly a fitting place –"

Arwen cut him off, her eyes flashing in the torchlight. "Correct, Lord Faramir. The dungeons are not a fitting place for either a Queen or a Steward. And yet here we are. Pray tell me why this is so?" The irony in her voice did little to conceal her anger, and her hands were clenched into fists.

Faramir cast a helpless look at Legolas, and sighed. Fixing his eyes upon the stone flags, he quickly recounted his investigation of the palantír. The others were silent, listening. He spoke tonelessly of his failed attempt to see Haradhur, and then his vision of the great hall, faltering only when he came to the point when Elessar had discovered him.

Faramir trailed off, unwilling to relive that horrible scene, but Arwen was relentless. "So the King found you. That much I might have guessed for myself. And then?"

Faramir swallowed. "He was . . . not himself, my lady."

Legolas raised an eyebrow at that, and Arwen smiled grimly. "Lord Faramir, I know the state of my husband's mind. I have lived with him all these months, and I would venture to say that I know of what he is capable. Now you tell me that he discovered you trespassing in the Tower, that indeed he caught you attempting to use the palantír to contact the enemy." She lifted a hand to forestall Faramir's protest, and continued. "I know that your intentions were noble, but I also know how he would have interpreted your actions. What I do not understand is why you are still alive."

Gimli drew a sharp breath, but Arwen ignored him. Stepping away from the cell bars, she turned deliberately to the Elf beside her. "Legolas?"

Legolas met her gaze. "There was no time for a trial before the army's departure, my lady. Aragorn –"

"Was of no mind to think of a _trial_," Arwen said. Her face was white and set in the gloom, and the torchlight flared in her eyes. "Spare me your courtesies, Legolas. Aragorn was going to kill Faramir."

"My lady!" Gimli cried. "You cannot believe that _Aragorn_ –"

"No!" Arwen snapped. She threw out a hand, like a white blade in the dark. "You will not tell me what I can and cannot believe. I have seen him do things of which _you_, Master Dwarf, would not imagine him capable. There is darkness in him that you wish to forget, and cruelty that you dare not see. But I have seen it, and I am sick unto death of this charade! Now speak openly, all of you! Elessar was going to kill him!"

Silence fell in the wake of her words, broken only by Arwen's swift breath as she glared at each of them in turn. Finally Legolas spoke.

"He might have, my lady," he said quietly. "But he did not."

"Because you stopped him."

"Because he stopped himself."

Arwen looked at him, and Faramir saw the first glimmer of tears in her eyes. She held herself regally still, but her hands trembled. "I want to believe that, Legolas, but –"

"Then believe." Legolas stepped forward, and taking her hands he drew her close to him. "You have seen the darkness in him, my lady, but there is strength also. You bid us to speak openly, and I say now that he is stronger than the shadow. Whatever darkness is influencing him, he will defeat it."

Arwen closed her eyes, leaning into the embrace, and Faramir saw the shudder that ran through her. He looked away, biting his lip.

They remained thus for a time, their heads bowed close together, murmuring words in a liquid tongue too soft for Faramir to catch. He fixed his eyes on a gutted candle stub high upon the cell wall and tried to concentrate on the small rustlings of the rats in the straw behind him.

Then Gimli cleared his throat. Faramir turned, and Legolas lifted his head to look at the Dwarf. "It's all well and good to say that Aragorn'll defeat it," Gimli said. "But what do we do in the meantime? This palantír or shadow or whatever it is that controls him nearly killed Faramir. Who's to say how far it'll go next time? We need to stop it _now._"

"It does not _control _him," Legolas said. "Not yet."

"Are we sure of that?" Faramir said.

The others turned to look at him, and he swallowed. He looked at Arwen, hating himself for adding to her pain, but it had to be said. The doubt had been growing in his mind ever since he looked in the palantír, and he would be no Steward if he did not at least raise the possibility.

"You question whether Aragorn can fight it?" Legolas asked.

Faramir shook his head. "No, Lord Legolas. I question whether the King is under any outside influence at all."

Arwen drew a small, sharp breath. Gimli frowned, his deep-set eyes all but hidden in the shadows from the torchlight. Legolas had gone completely still, staring at Faramir.

"What evidence do we have that he is under any power other than his own?" Faramir said the words in a rush, feeling himself a traitor even as he spoke. "You spoke of darkness within him, my lady, and cruelty. We have all seen it – but has anyone seen _any _evidence that he does not act of his own will?"

"Now just a minute," Gimli said. "At the Council, you yourself said that the palantír –"

"I said that the palantír could not be used without affecting the user," Faramir said. "And it has affected him, of that I have no doubt. But an outside force that controls him? Even influences him? I see no sign of that."

"You yourself have felt the power of the seeing stone," Legolas said. His eyes were like chips of ice.

Faramir met the Elf's gaze, his mouth dry. "Power, yes," he said. "But that is _all _I felt, Lord Legolas. I looked into the palantír, and I saw nothing. I grant that I had little time to explore it, but subject to its user's skill it moves wherever one wills it. Given time I could have taken it to Harad – I could have looked anywhere I chose, even into Mordor itself. There was nothing to stop me. _There is no one else controlling the palantír._"

Arwen bowed her head. "Then it is true," she whispered. Her arms were folded close over her abdomen. "The darkness in him is his own."

"No," Legolas said.

"It hurts me even to think it," Faramir said. "But you must understand the hearts of Men, Legolas. Given such power –"

"_No!_" Faramir did not even see Legolas move, but the next instant he was pulled hard against the cell bars, the Elf's hands fisted in his tunic. "I do not claim to understand Men, Lord Faramir," Legolas snarled. "But I know Aragorn. He would not do such things alone. _He could not._"

Faramir did not struggle. He turned his head, meeting the Elf's furious gaze. "He hurt you, Legolas," he said softly. "I saw it. And he would have killed me, had you not stopped him. What more are you willing to risk?"

Legolas' hands loosened their hold, and he stepped back. Faramir straightened, still keeping his eyes on the Elf. Legolas looked stricken.

"What did Aragorn do to you, Legolas?" Gimli asked. It was possible that the Dwarf was trying to sound gentle, but his look was murderous.

"Nothing," Legolas said. He looked directly into Faramir's eyes. "Lord Faramir is mistaken."

Faramir started to protest, but Legolas was already turning away. "Aragorn resisted the power of the One Ring, Gimli. Do you really think that the palantír of Orthanc could corrupt him?"

"Perhaps not at once," Faramir said. "But given time, over years of use . . ."

"_It would not happen,_" Legolas snapped. "Not to Aragorn, not like that. There is another force at work here, beyond power alone."

"Eru, Legolas, I want to believe that!" Faramir cried. "But if so, what is it? Who is it? Who in Middle-earth now has the strength to turn King Elessar against his will?"

There was a long silence. Then Legolas lifted his head. "I do not know," he said softly. "But I am going to find out." And sketching a quick bow to Arwen, he turned on his heel, and was gone.

His departure was so swift that for a moment the others simply stood looking after him in astonishment. Then Gimli swore under his breath. "You," he said, stabbing a thick finger at Faramir. "Stay there. I'll have words with you later." He bowed hastily to the Queen and hurried away after Legolas.

Arwen and Faramir were left alone. Faramir blinked. "Stay here," he muttered, looking at the bars that stood between him and the rest of the citadel. "Right."

Arwen dashed a hand across her eyes. "You would be wise to do as he says," she said.

Faramir felt a pang of guilt. "My lady," he said. "Forgive me. I did not wish to cause you pain."

Arwen shook her head. "It needed to be said. Long have I suspected that this shadow might be of Aragorn's own making. Even now I would deny it, and believe as Legolas does . . . but we must at least consider the possibility."

Faramir saw the moisture that glinted heavily on her lashes, and swallowed. "If there is anything that I can do, my lady –"

Arwen gave a short, humorless laugh. "You have done quite enough, Lord Faramir. Now I have business to which I must attend. Your wife is anxious to see you – I shall have the guard escort her directly."

Faramir sighed and made his way back to his seat when she had gone. He sat down and closed his eyes, allowing his head to thud gently back against the cell wall. _Éowyn_. "Oh, dear."

*~*~*

Gimli climbed. There were certain rules to follow, when looking for an Elf, and he had learned the fundamental principles early in his friendship with Legolas. Get outside, find the places with a bit of greenery and life to them, or failing that, just go upwards as high as you can.

He reached the dungeon entrance to find no sign of the Elf, but this was hardly a surprise. The guards indicated that Legolas had taken the passage that led outside the citadel, and Gimli nodded. Exasperating as Legolas was, there were times when he could be remarkably predictable.

He was just setting out again when the lanky form of Laon, his current keeper, unfolded itself from the circle of seated guards.

Gimli hardly spared him a glance. "Right then," he said, and strode away. "Come on, and don't expect me to be waitin' for you if you can't keep up."

During the past few weeks in Minas Tirith Gimli had worked out a truce of sorts with his ever-present guards. He ignored them, and they in turn did their best to be ignored. In the absence of any change in the King's orders, the citadel guard had developed a rotating watch to spread Gimli's bodyguard duty over as many Men as possible. It was rumored that the head of the watch had taken to assigning the Dwarf's guard as a punishment for watchmen who neglected their duties, or possibly as a rite of passage for new recruits. Gimli took a great deal of satisfaction in this.

He hesitated for a moment at the point where the passage opened to the cool morning air, branching left and right to the stables and the courtyard. Gimli considered briefly, and then took the right-hand path. After the dark of the prison, he reasoned, Legolas would likely be eager for as much light and air as possible. And if he were wrong, at least he'd have a good vantage point to look for him.

This time his instincts proved right. Gimli emerged onto verdant grass heavy with dew and looked around, shivering a little after the warmth of the lower passages. The vast expanse was empty and still in the slanting rays of the newly risen sun, and the air was cold. But as Gimli rounded the young sapling in the center he saw that the very tip of the western spur had emerged full into the sunlight, and there he spied a flash of gold.

Gimli's stomach did a slow roll. Legolas was perched cross-legged on uttermost spire of the courtyard wall, inches from the sheer seven hundred foot drop to the city below. Gimli swallowed hard and approached.

His guard followed hesitantly, and stopped when Gimli shot him a warning look. He had reluctantly accepted that he could not prevent the citadel guards from following him wherever he went. But he'd be hanged before he let this one get within listening distance of him and Legolas.

He made a bit more noise than necessary as he walked up the stone path, not wishing to startle the Elf. Legolas must have heard him, but he gave no sign as Gimli came to stand behind him. His face was turned away, looking out over the Pelennor fields toward the distant peaks of the Ephel Duath.

Something in the Elf's manner told Gimli that for once he'd do better with an indirect approach. He cleared his throat. "Ah, well, it's a fair day."

Legolas did not respond, and Gimli sighed. Cautiously he took another step toward the brink, resisting the urge to physically drag Legolas down off the wall. There was good stone in this city, but it was a thousand years old and he had little trust in the building skills of Men.

He followed the Elf's gaze, trying not to think of the precipice that yawned before them. He focused on the dim purple bulk of the mountains. "Fine morning for a smoke, I was thinking," he tried again. "I've got my pipe right here."

When Legolas did not answer that threat Gimli began to grow alarmed. He could think of only one thing that would distract Legolas in the face of pipeweed, and he shaded his eyes, scanning the horizon for seagulls. He could see nothing, but that meant little if Legolas could.

_I'll strangle 'em all if one of those cursed birds shows up now, _Gimli thought, squinting until black specks danced before his eyes. _That's all we need, a bloody attack of the bloody sea-longing on top of everything else._

"It was all for nothing," Legolas said.

Gimli blinked. Perhaps it wasn't the sea that was bothering the Elf, after all. "What?"

Legolas turned, and there was such anguish in his eyes that Gimli backed up a step. In this moment the calm façade was cast aside, and Legolas' heart was bared as Gimli had rarely seen it.

"Lord Faramir," Legolas said. "I warned him of the risk, I pleaded with him not to search the palantír, but he would not listen. It was his duty, he said. His duty! And I _helped _him, because he would have done it alone if I had not. I thought: if we could see whence came this shadow – but he saw nothing. Aragorn is all but lost to us, and it was for _nothing!_"

Gimli hesitated. He ached to help his friend, but he did not have it within himself to mouth empty words of comfort in the face of Legolas' pain. "Perhaps . . . perhaps not nothing," he said at last.

Legolas looked at him, and Gimli saw his features smooth and harden into perfect immobility. In that moment the serene mask slipped back into place, raw emotion locked away as if it had never been. But for all his control, his eyes betrayed him. They were still dark, and they watched Gimli warily, waiting.

Gimli swallowed. "Faramir _did _learn something, after all. If it weren't for him we'd still be thinking that someone else was using the palantír to get to Aragorn."

The moment the words left his mouth he knew that it was the wrong thing to say. Legolas' eyes hardened. "You agree with him, then, that Aragorn acts of his own free will? You would believe that this shadow is of his own making?"

Gimli sighed. "I don't know, Legolas. Faramir looked in the palantír, not me. If he says that there's nothing there, who am I to say he's wrong?"

Legolas jaw clenched. "I see," he spat. "Then Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of the high Kings, vanquished the Dark Lord and resisted the One Ring only to be seduced by a _palantír._ Of course. Why did we not see it before? What need did we have to fear the devices of the Enemy, when the true danger lies in the creations of the Elves?"

"I never said that!" Gimli snapped, his temper rising. "Maybe it isn't the palantír at all! If you're so certain that someone, or something, is influencing him, why must it necessarily be doing it through that rock? There are other forces in Middle-earth, aren't there?"

Legolas matched his glare for a long moment, smoldering with suppressed anger. Then he breathed out, and slowly the tension eased. He looked away, back toward the open fields. Gimli sagged a little in relief. Four years he'd known Legolas, and the intensity of the Elf's gaze still unnerved him.

"Perhaps," Legolas said at last. "But I have felt the power in that rock, Gimli. Whoever, whatever, is influencing Aragorn, the palantír is bound up in it as well. I know it."

Gimli groaned. This was the problem with Elves, he thought. All their talk was in circles. "Then what do you propose to do? Look in it yourself? Think you'd fare better than Faramir?"

Legolas was turned away from him, so that Gimli could not see his face, but he saw the shudder that ran through the Elf's body. "No," Legolas said, and to Gimli's ears his voice was strained. "I would not look in that palantír unless at utmost need. I do not wish for that power."

Gimli frowned in confusion. "But it was made by the Elves, wasn't it? If anyone could control it –"

"Aragorn can control it," Legolas said. "It was gifted to the Men of Númenor, and it is his by right of inheritance. See what good that has done him."

"Then what do we _do_?" Gimli asked.

Legolas sighed. "What we have always done, elvellon. Stand by his side, and help him to face this trial."

Gimli snorted. "Oh yes? And we'll help him to invade Harad as well, shall we?"

Legolas swung his legs over the edge of the wall, spinning around to face him, and Gimli's heart dropped. Mahal, he wished the Elf would stop doing that!

"No, elvellon. You will stay here, as agreed. I will go with him to Harad."

"What!" Gimli cried. "You can't _still _expect me to –"

"Gimli," Legolas said. "We cannot stop him. Any attempt to dissuade him would now be seen as treachery, and if we are to help him we must regain his trust. You gave your word to defend the city. You cannot break it."

"Does that matter?" Gimli said. "If we let him go to war, Legolas, people will die. Will you permit that? Better to lock him up now and you can worry about his trust later."

Legolas shook his head. "We still do not know that he is wrong about the threat from Harad, Gimli. However it may influence him, the palantír cannot lie."

Gimli took a breath and edged close enough to the wall to see over it, down past the distant circles of the city to the sweep of the Pelennor Fields. Tents filled his vision, their faded canopies a dull grey under the long shadow of the city. Cooking fires flickered in their midst, like the first stars of a night that blacked out the promise of day.

"And so you'll allow him to unleash that?" Gimli gestured to the vast army. "Once the march begins, Legolas, do you think you can stop it?"

Legolas' eyes were bleak. "No, elvellon. But Aragorn can."

A cold hand seemed to clasp Gimli's heart. "Can he, Legolas? Can you be sure of that? Faramir said that Aragorn hurt you . . ."

Legolas froze. But when he spoke his voice was steady. "Lord Faramir said many things. You need not trouble yourself over the one of least import."

"No?" Gimli said. "Then you'll pardon my folly, Legolas, because it doesn't seem like such a minor thing to me. Aragorn _wants _you to go with him on this march. Haven't you wondered why?"

Legolas swung off the wall, dropping to the ground next to Gimli. "No," he said. "It is enough for me that he does. He still listens to me, elvellon, and I will bring him back."

"But at what cost?" Gimli whispered. His mouth was dry. He thought of the awful scene in Aragorn's chambers, when he had accused them of conspiring against him. He remembered the way Aragorn's hands had gripped Legolas' shoulders, the black fire in his eyes as he stared at the Elf. And Legolas' words, _Tell me what to do . . ._

"What happened in that Tower, Legolas? What did he do to you?"

Legolas did not answer. Turning away, he started up back up the long path to the citadel.

Gimli called after him, forcing the words past a throat tight with fear for his friend, "Legolas! What would you give, if he asked it?"

Legolas paused, and Gimli saw him stiffen, his shoulder blades like wings as he drew breath. But he did not look back. The moment ticked past in silence, and then Legolas walked away.


	19. In Dreams

At times I think there are no words but these to tell what's true.

– Bob Dylan, _Gates of Eden_

Chapter 18: In Dreams

"What is taking so long?" Éowyn demanded.

"I don't know, my lady," Brelaf said. He suspected that she didn't really expect an answer, but it was better to give one anyway than to have her think he was ignoring her.

Éowyn reached the end of the small sitting room, whipped around, and started back the other way. Brelaf's head swiveled automatically as he watched her. He was beginning to get dizzy.

"It's absurd," Éowyn snapped, upon reaching the opposite wall. Her heels clicked a swift, angry rhythm upon the stone flags. "The very idea of _Faramir _a traitor! It's ludicrous!"

Privately Brelaf was inclined to agree. He had served with Lord Faramir in the Rangers before the War, and had been honored when the Steward asked him to join the guard in Ithilien. He did not know the new King very well, but Faramir had saved his life on more than one occasion. To think of his noble, kind captain under suspicion and locked in a dungeon cell . . . it was almost physically painful.

But he had sworn to serve the King above all others, and Lord Faramir had taught him the value of such an oath. Even if they did break him out of the cell, as Brelaf half-dreamed of doing, Faramir would likely refuse to leave. He had just the sort of noble, self-sacrificing sense of honor that could drive a loyal guard to distraction.

"At least when Éomer was imprisoned there was some reason for it," Éowyn continued. Her footsteps were muffled as she strode across the rich carpet, then louder again as she reached the wall and turned. "It was the sort of absurd, trumped-up charge that Wormtongue would create, but he _did _disobey Théoden King's orders. Technically."

Brelaf nodded. He knew very little of Éomer King's past, apart from the fact that he had survived a childhood in close proximity to the Lady Éowyn. That alone was enough to win any man's respect, he thought.

It was something of a toss-up among the guards as to which duty was worse, attending Lord Gimli or Lady Éowyn. For his part, however, Brelaf had no doubt. He had served the lady for four years now, and he loved her as a soldier loves his Queen. She was strong, independent, brave, and refreshingly honest for a lady of the court. Her beauty and quick wit had won his admiration almost from their first meeting, even if her sharp tongue meant that he preferred to admire from a distance.

In the wake of Lord Faramir's arrest, however, the captain of the King's Guard had told them, very discreetly, that the watch over Lady Éowyn and Lord Gimli and Lady Lothíriel was to be tightened. Hence Brelaf's position inside the sitting room with his charge, while another guard took the greatly preferred station outside the door. It was for her protection, of course, he told himself again. Regardless of Lord Faramir's . . . misunderstanding . . . the King could not truly believe that any of them were a threat. It was said that Lord Gimli was one of the King's closest friends. No, it was absurd even to think it.

Brelaf had promptly volunteered for Lady Éowyn's guard. He was a logical choice, after all, having known her for so long. In truth his first preference would have been the Lady Lothíriel, who by all accounts was quiet, undemanding, and the very flower of courteous womanhood. But she had come from Dol Amroth with a full retinue of personal bodyguards, who laid claim to her with the smug certainty of men who know that the performance of their duty means that they will be kept as far from Lord Gimli as possible.

Lady Éowyn was definitely the best of his choices available, even if at the moment she was pacing like a caged tiger and Brelaf was on the wrong side of the bars. The stories he had heard of Lord Gimli . . . Éowyn might breathe fire, but at least she never breathed smoke. And last night Gimli's guard had come in looking haggard, and was forced to admit that he'd lost track of his charge during the banquet, right when Lord Faramir had somehow gained access to the Tower . . . no, Brelaf was quite content where he was.

There was some rumor that the captain had even ordered a watch on Lord Legolas, though how they were supposed to carry that out was beyond Brelaf's ability to imagine. How did one guard a being who could apparently vanish at will, and the way his eyes _looked _at you . . .

Éowyn's skirts brushed a small table as she turned, and the vase set upon it rocked dangerously before settling. She steadied it with one hand, keeping the other still wrapped tightly over her chest, above the swell of her belly. She glanced up to see Brelaf watching her and scowled.

"Don't you have anything better to do?"

"No, my lady," Brelaf answered with the fervent honesty of a man who knows his alternatives.

A knock sounded on the door, and they both turned toward it. The outer guard stepped into the room. "My lady? The Queen would see you now."

"Yes!" Éowyn straightened, smoothing the loose tendrils of her hair back to the knot at the base of her neck. "I mean, thank you. Where –"

Arwen entered the room. Brelaf snapped to attention so fast that a twinge went up his spine. The Queen looked tired – looked beyond tired, he thought. Deep shadows were imprinted beneath her eyes, and her normally pale skin was waxy with fatigue. Even so she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and as always in her presence he felt acutely conscious of his own rumpled uniform and thinning hair.

She nodded to him, and his stomach gave a pleasant lurch. "Thank you, Brelaf," she said, and he felt himself blush. There was no reason she should remember his name, but she had.

"Your Majesty," he said, and saluted.

The Queen's lips curved in a weary smile, but Éowyn was looking at him with thinly veiled impatience. "You may go now," she said pointedly.

Brelaf's cheeks flamed hot. "Yes, my lady," he said. Resisting the urge to salute again, he made his escape. The captain would probably say that he should remain in the room regardless. He would say that it was, after all, for her own good. The captain, Brelaf thought savagely as he closed the door behind him, could bloody well tell that to Lady Éowyn himself.

*~*~*

Arwen sighed as she sank down into the chair next beside the cold hearth. She was exhausted, her feet felt as if they'd swollen to twice their usual size, she was near sick with worry over Aragorn, and if she didn't sleep soon she would collapse. But Éowyn had been waiting hours for word, and she looked nearly as distraught as Arwen felt.

Arwen gave her what she could. "Lord Faramir is well."

"Yes?" Relief flared in Éowyn's eyes, and then she fixed Arwen with a determined gaze. "I must see him."

"Of course," Arwen replied. She waved a hand toward the entrance. "The guard can escort you."

Éowyn glanced at the door, and then back at Arwen. "I do know the way, Your Majesty."

"I know," Arwen said. She'd have given much to avoid this discussion, but it could not be helped. Éowyn was a ruler and warrior in her own right, and she had already shown signs of impatience with the guards attending her. Arwen could hardly blame her for that, but it was high time that she awoke to some unpleasant truths.

"The guards serve at the King's command," she explained as gently as she could. "It is his wish that none of us go unprotected at this time."

Éowyn's lips pressed together. "Even inside the citadel?" she said skeptically. "Are we to be attacked in the King's own house?"

Arwen did not answer. Éowyn blew out her breath and sat down in the chair opposite. Her back was still ramrod straight. "They've even set a watch on Lord Gimli," she pointed out. "Tell me, my lady, is that really the best use of the King's resources? Guarding a seasoned warrior from . . . what? Spies of Harad? Spies that no one has seen?"

Arwen shook her head. In her heart she agreed with Éowyn, but she could not help defending her husband. "It is merely a precaution. Please, Éowyn, it is not so much to ask. They do not hamper your movements. Just . . . ignore them."

Éowyn snorted. "And my husband's arrest? Am I to simply ignore that as well, Arwen?" She followed Arwen's lead to use a more familiar address, but her eyes flashed challenge.

Arwen leaned forward, covering her eyes with her hand. "Of course not," she said after a moment, when she was certain that her voice would not shake. "That will be corrected soon, I am sure. We must have patience."

"Patience!" Éowyn cried. "By Helm's hammer – he's accused of _treason,_ Arwen! Dear Eru, he could be _executed!_ And you sit there as if nothing were wrong, and tell me to have _patience!_"

"It is all we can do," Arwen said quietly. Her palms pressed hard against the darkness of her eyelids, as if to block out the horrors of this night. Were she mortal – were she _born _mortal, she corrected – she might have believed this all a dream. Surely this could not be her life. Surely she would open her eyes, and Faramir would be free, and Aragorn would be as he was before.

There was a pause, and then she felt Éowyn's hand cool against her wrist, gently pulling her hands down. Reluctantly she looked up into the troubled eyes of her friend.

"My lady, please," Éowyn said. The strong timbre of her voice was shaken, as Arwen had rarely heard it. She cupped Arwen's hand between her own. "Please, I – I need him. His child needs him. Can you not speak to Elessar for us?"

Tears stung Arwen's eyes. She could cope with Éowyn's anger. But this gentle pleading struck to the core of Arwen's own fear and anguish, and suddenly the weight of her defenses seemed too much to bear. She looked away, blinking rapidly.

"I am sorry." She pulled her hand free.

"You must at least try!" Éowyn cried. "Arwen, you cannot believe that Faramir –"

"I know that he is innocent," Arwen forced the words past the constriction of her throat. "And – I believe that the King knows it as well. In time, he will realize it. But I cannot speak to him of this, Éowyn. Please, do not ask it of me."

"But you must." Éowyn's voice quavered. "Please, Your Majesty – I beg you. You are our only hope."

_Our only hope._ Arwen swallowed. She had made that same plea to Legolas, weeks ago – speak to him. Bring him back. But every time they reached for him, he slipped further into shadow. To try now would be to risk the last thread that held him to them. She felt the life stir within her again, and knew that she could not do that. She could not risk Aragorn's wrath, not for Faramir, not even for Éowyn. She loved them, but their child would not take precedence over her own.

"I am sorry," she said again. _I no longer trust in hope._

"What then?" Éowyn stood, an awkward movement that emphasized the fullness of her stomach. "Shall I sit by and wait, while my husband's fate hangs on the whim of the King's madness?"

Arwen flinched, but did not counter the charge. Éowyn's cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright and hard. _Madness indeed,_ Arwen thought. _And he is beyond my reach, perhaps forever. And now . . . even if I were to leave him, where have I to go?_

She met Éowyn's gaze. "Go to your husband," she said. "And . . . whatever may come, know that he loves you, and your child." _Be thankful that you have that much,_ she thought.

*~*~*

Aragorn was dreaming. He had drifted for a time in the twilit world between sleeping and waking, half-aware as his boots were removed and he was helped into the large bed. Cool sheets were drawn up over his chest, followed by the comforting weight of the duvet. There was a soft murmur of servants' voices, and then the click of the door closing.

Someone touched his hand. Reflexively he tensed, jerking back to wakefulness, but the fingers tightened over his own and a familiar voice spoke in soothing tones. "Estel, it is only me. You are safe."

He relaxed again. Legolas was there. That was all right, then. He sank back into the soft pillows, feeling the tension ease from around his mouth and eyes. A cool hand stroked the hair back from his brow. Then Legolas began to sing. An ancient lullaby caressed his aching mind, words of peace and love from a time before fear, before hate, when the world was new, and there were only stars. He followed it, floating upon the gentle melody into dream, secure and safe in the knowledge that Legolas kept watch. For the first time in months, he truly slept.

He was standing upon the seashore. The night sky was strewn with stars. Black waves pounded the shore, leaving ripples of foam sketched like a child's scrawl in their wake. The wet sand glistened in the starlight.

"You should not be here," he said. Legolas stood a short distance away, his cloak billowing about his slender frame. His hair streamed silver in the wind. Aragorn frowned. "It isn't safe."

"Why did you bring him here, then?" Arwen said. "Did you not know what would happen?"

"No!" Aragorn said. He took her hands, pulling her close. "I only wanted to protect you."

She looked at him, her eyes huge in the dim light. "But you cannot protect me, Estel. You never could."

"Tell me how," he pleaded. "Tell me what to do."

But she pulled away. "You don't know," she said. She stood apart from him, luminous in the starlight, so beautiful that his heart ached. "Even now, you do not know." Tears glinted upon her eyelashes.

"He cannot know," Legolas said. He had not moved, but stood like marble carved under the starlight. His face was turned away from them, toward the sea. "It would destroy him."

"No," Aragorn said again. "I am stronger than that."

"You do not know," Arwen whispered. "How can you protect us?"

He reached again for her, crushing her soft body to his, bringing their mouths together in a bruising kiss. His arms were locked around her, holding her tight. But her lips were cold under his, and even as he held her she slipped away.

"You refuse to learn, Estel," Legolas said. "Even now." Arwen was at his side. Legolas took her hand, bowing low to kiss her fingers. Arwen laughed, the sound bright against the roar of the surf.

"But I have," Aragorn protested. "I have tried."

"Then why are we here?" Legolas swept Arwen into his arms, turning her to face the sea. He nuzzled her neck. "See how beautiful it is," he murmured.

Aragorn turned. Minas Tirith was burning. The flames leaped up, limning the white stone in red and gold. A black pall of smoke hung over the city.

"What have you done?"

"I tried to stop it," Aragorn said.

Legolas knelt down, brushing his fingers through the ash that clung to the sparse winter grass.

"Why didn't you listen to me?" Aragorn asked. "If you'd only listened, I wouldn't have to do this."

There was blood on his fingers. He held them up, turning them over in the light of the distant fires. "You're hurt," he said.

A bead of blood welled from Legolas' lip. He froze, looking up at Aragorn. "It is nothing," he said.

Aragorn reached toward him. Legolas hissed as his fingers brushed the smooth cheek, and then Aragorn saw the cut. "Wait," he said, but Legolas pulled away.

"Don't."

"I have to," Aragorn said.

He pushed the Elf down against the hard earth. Legolas fell beneath him, his cloak spread in crimson waves over the broken field. Aragorn held him down, sliding his hands up under the cool silk of his hair to touch the rapid beat at his throat.

Legolas turned his face away. "Don't."

"I have to." Aragorn looked up. Arwen stood over them, watching. Her hair blew in raven strands across her face. Her cloak billowed like dark wings around them.

"Don't you understand," Aragorn said. "I did it for you."

Arwen's gaze was full of sorrow. "There is blood on your hands."

Aragorn looked down. Legolas' head was turned aside, his eyes closed. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, but he did not resist. Dark tracks smeared across his pale skin where Aragorn had touched him.

Aragorn raised his hands before his eyes, turning them over. "No," he said. "It is only the firelight. You might make that mistake . . ."

The blood was stark against Legolas' throat. Long strands of his hair stuck to it. Aragorn reached to brush them away, but they clung to the gore on his fingers, the blood clotting as he tried to smooth it away.

"It isn't true," Aragorn said. "You're trying to confuse me."

Legolas shifted beneath him. His eyes were shut fast, his brow furrowed in pain. "Estel," he breathed. "Don't . . ."

Aragorn looked up into Arwen's eyes. "I have to," he said.

And Minas Tirith burned.

Aragorn awoke gasping for air. The sheets were wrapped around him, tangled and clammy with sweat. The room was stifling hot. The only light came from the glow of banked embers on the hearth. Legolas was gone.

He struggled free of the huge bed, swearing as his knee collided with the heavy oaken bedpost. Clad only in his leggings, he threw open the doors to the balcony and stepped outside, drawing thankful draughts of the cold night air.

It was only a dream. Gradually his heart began to slow. The courtyard stretched green and peaceful before him, the Tree gleaming gently in the moonlight. The stars arched in endless vaults above him, clear and unmarred by smoke.

Of course he had dreamed of the city's burning before. He had seen it, during the War. But this was no gift of the Sight, he told himself. That field – it had been winter, in the dream. And now the Pelennor was green with spring. And Legolas – dear Valar, he would _never _hurt Legolas, no more than he would hurt Arwen. It was a trick. Some trick of the enemy's, trying to make him lose control.

A nightmare memory in the back of his mind: _You could make him obey._

He pushed the thought aside, trembling.

It was only a dream.


	20. Setting Terms

"He that was our Brother goes away.

Hear, now, and judge, O ye People of the Jungle –

Answer, who shall turn him – who shall stay?"

– Rudyard Kipling, _The_ _Second Jungle Book_

Chapter 19: Setting Terms

Éowyn swept down the dungeon passage like a meteor streaking to earth, trailing guards in her wake. Faramir heard her coming and braced himself for the impact.

She stopped outside his cell, her skirts swaying about her. The torches rippled a moment in the draft and then steadied. Faramir met her level gaze and smiled weakly. He wanted to tell her that he was all right, but he was not certain that that would remain the case much longer.

Éowyn turned her head as one of the guards caught up, wheezing. "Open it."

The sergeant looked as if he would protest, saw the glint in her eyes, and thought better of it. "A guard will have to keep watch, my lady."

"Of course," Éowyn said dismissively. "That is what you do, after all."

The other guards had caught up by this point, in varying degrees of breathlessness. The sergeant unlocked the cell door and stood aside. For a fleeting moment Faramir wished that he hadn't.

Éowyn entered, lifting her skirts above the straw that littered the floor. The sergeant carefully locked the door behind her, and handed the keys to another guard – Faramir recognized Brelaf, who had served with him in the Rangers before transferring to Ithilien. The man took his position next to the door with the look of one resigned to his fate. The sergeant led the rest of the guards in a retreat, moving as quickly as dignity would allow.

Faramir was left alone with Éowyn in a cell that suddenly seemed not nearly large enough. She stood quite still for a long moment, looking at him.

"Queen Undómiel said that you were well," she said at last.

Faramir nodded warily. He loved his wife in part because of her restive and unpredictable spirit, but he had learned early in their marriage that her wit was coupled with a temper that would have given Denethor pause for thought. At the moment she seemed calm, but her eyes smoldered with strong emotion. He felt like a man gifted with a rare and beautiful jewel that might, on occasion, explode.

She nodded in return. "You look well." Her voice fractured. "They have not . . . mistreated you . . ." the words choked off, and to Faramir's horror tears filled her eyes.

"No, my love," he said, and in a swift movement was at her side, drawing her close. To his astonishment she leaned into the embrace, her hands clutching his shoulders as if to draw from his strength, and he felt her tremble.

"Oh, Éowyn, _lacha_ _nîn_,"1 he murmured. "Shh. It is all right."

"No," she pushed away from him, turning red-rimmed eyes to his. "It is _not _all right. They are calling you a traitor, Faramir! They say that the King found you in the Tower…"

Faramir bowed his head. "I know."

Éowyn swallowed hard, audible in the silence between them. "Is it true?"

Faramir could not help but smile at the question. She must have heard the story from a hundred people this night, including the King and Queen of Gondor. But still she would not believe until she heard it from him directly. His heart ached anew with love and wonder for this amazing creature who was his wife. In that moment he longed more than anything to tell her that the charges were false.

"I am sorry," he said.

Éowyn snorted. "Everyone is sorry, it seems," she said. "Queen Undómiel was very _sorry_, but little good that does us. Faramir, _why?_"

Faramir sighed. Taking her hands in his, he drew her down to sit on the stone bench beside him. "If I tell you," he said, "you must not act rashly. Do you understand?"

She started to protest, but he tightened his grip. "No, my love. I must ask your compliance in this, if in nothing else. You must not speak of what I tell you to anyone, nor seek to rescue me, nor summon aid from Ithilien, nor Rohan. Please. I will explain everything, but you must promise me this."

She glowered at him. "And Éomer?"

"He will learn soon enough, if he does not know already," Faramir said. "But I fear there is little he can do. It is not worth the risk of you being heard telling him."

Éowyn opened her mouth, but Faramir shook his head. "Promise me, _lacha_ _nîn._"

She gave an exaggerated sigh, but closed her mouth and subsided. "Very well. I promise." She looked mutinous.

Faramir took a deep breath, and told her everything. He spoke of the Council meeting, his suspicions of the palantír, Imrahil's counsel, Legolas' protest and eventual capitulation . . . everything. She listened in silence, though he felt her tense as he described his investigation of the palantír and the final, horrible confrontation in the Tower.

At last he finished. The cell was quiet save for the distant rustle of the rats. Éowyn said nothing for a long while, but rested against his side, staring at the small grate high in the opposite wall. A hint of daylight showed at the end of the long vent to the mountainside.

"You must leave," she said at last.

"Éowyn," Faramir began, but she cut him off, sitting up and turning to face him. Her eyes were fever-bright.

"No! Faramir, it is madness! You saw it yourself – there is no threat in the palantír. The King is mad! He would have killed you were it not for Legolas – who is to say he will not do so in the future? You must leave, now."

He looked at her in sorrow. "Do you really believe him capable of that, my lady? But . . ." _you love him,_ he thought, yet could not bring himself to say the words. He held no illusions of his place in his wife's affections.

Éowyn's jaw was set, her face pale in the torchlight. "I will not take the chance, my lord. In truth I would not have believed him capable of the things you describe, but I have been wrong in the past. I will not chance it now." She met his gaze, and her eyes softened. "I will not risk losing you," she said in a small voice.

Faramir's breath caught. Before he could think of a response, however, he heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. He turned to see Brelaf standing to attention outside the door, red-faced and glowing with determination.

"My lord," he said. "Lady Éowyn is right. You cannot stay here! I have the keys, and your men will follow you. Go now, before it is too late!"

Faramir sighed, feeling a leaden weariness creep into his limbs. _What then would you do,_ he thought, remembering Legolas' words at the Council so long ago. _Would you defy him?_

"How many men, Brelaf?" he asked quietly. "How many would you estimate would follow me?"

"All of the Rangers, my lord," Brelaf answered promptly. "And your guard in Ithilien – there are three hundred there at least. Lord Faramir, everyone's talking about it. We know that the King has not been himself of late. This is too much to be borne!"

"And what of those who say that it is not a guardsman's place to judge his King – nor the place of a Steward, either? What of those who remember their oath to King Elessar, and remain true to him?"

Brelaf's chin quivered in indignation. "We'll fight them, my lord! They'll not lay hands upon you!"

"No?" Faramir stood. "Think what you say, sergeant! They are Men of Gondor! They are your kin. Some of them yet bear wounds from the War, when they fought to defend your home and protect your family. Will you kill them? Will you then accomplish what the Enemy could not, and destroy Gondor from within?"

Brelaf blinked, looking taken aback. "It . . . it wouldn't be like that," he began. "I mean, none of us thought…"

"You didn't think at all," Faramir snapped. "That task remains to me. And I tell you now, I am still the Steward of Gondor, and I will not see her brought down, not by any enemy, and not by the likes of you. You swore an oath to obey your King, and you will uphold it. _Is that understood?_"

Brelaf opened his mouth and shut it in silence. Then he swallowed. "Yes, my lord."

"Good." Faramir held him in his gaze. "Then I will have your word, Brelaf son of Darfor. You will speak to no one of what you have heard here today. You will not be party to any talk of rebellion or mutiny, and you will obey the King's command in every detail. Agreed?"

Brelaf bowed, not meeting Faramir's eyes. "Yes, Lord Faramir." His voice was sullen with reluctance. "You have my word."

"Then stand to your post, sergeant."

There was a scrape of boot heels on stone as Brelaf saluted and returned to his position by the door. Faramir sagged a little. He turned back toward the bench, and flinched. Éowyn was watching him with eyes like adamant.

"And if the King orders you hanged?" she asked in a vicious whisper. "Are they to follow his command _then,_ my lord?"

Faramir sank down again beside her. "It will not come to that," he said. "Lord Legolas believes that he can yet return to the way he was. We must have faith that this madness, whatever its cause, is temporary."

"And if it is not?" Éowyn's voice shook. "What then?"

Faramir pulled her close, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair. For a moment she remained rigid in his arms, and then slowly he felt her relax. He rubbed his hand in comforting circles on her back, and closed his eyes. But he could not lie to her.

"Then I will do what is best for Gondor," he said. "As I have always done."

She moved to protest, but he held her fast. "Long ago I swore to give my life for my country, my people. You know this, Éowyn. Nothing has changed."

"But not like this!" Éowyn cried. "Never like this! You would die and leave Gondor in the hands of a madman!"

"Better that than to lead her into civil war," Faramir said. Even now it was painful to say the words. He had held such hope for Elessar, the King who had come at last. "She has had poor Kings in the past, and worse Stewards. But she is greater than King or Steward, and she endures."

"And me?" Éowyn whispered. "And your child?"

Faramir swallowed, feeling the tears prick behind his eyes. "She is greater than any of us, _lacha_ _nîn_," he said. "But . . . I would have you free of this, if I could."

Éowyn stirred in his arms, and lifted his hand to kiss it. "It is too late for that, my love," she said. His fingers brushed her cheek, and he felt the moisture there. "We are here, and we shall not leave you, whatever may come."

His arms tightened around her. She leaned into his embrace, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. She was warm against him, their shared heat warding off the cold of the stone at his back. Faramir rested his chin against the smooth waves of Éowyn's hair, staring with empty eyes into the gloom. _Whatever may come._

*~*~*

Gimli had had enough. The whole court was in an uproar. Advisors and courtiers were rushing about, guards were everywhere, everyone was talking at once and no one was saying anything of import.

Rumors flew like birds in the fall. The Steward was in league with the Haradrim. He had conspired with the enemy through the King's own palantír. He had seen some new threat and warned Elessar about it, and the arrest was a ruse to confuse spies within the citadel. Faramir was to be executed that night. The King had granted him full pardon.

Men evidently needed to talk, regardless of whether they had anything to say. Faramir was lucky to be shut away from the lot, Gimli thought, because the way opinion was swinging back and forth he might well have been rescued by a mob that later turned around and killed him.

The only ones who seemed to know what really happened were Legolas and Faramir, and neither of them was talking much. Gimli's conversation with Legolas, if you could call it that, had left him badly shaken. Legolas seemed ready to follow Aragorn into Morgoth's Void and beyond, if necessary, and never mind the consequences. The fool Elf had evidently abandoned what little sense he'd been born with, and was infuriatingly resistant to Gimli's attempts to make him see reason.

Faramir was at least confined where Gimli could question him at leisure, but that was of little comfort to the Dwarf right now. He'd already heard Faramir's tale of the encounter, but the Man was sketchy on the details that concerned Gimli most. If he accepted that there was no enemy controlling Aragorn through the palantír, why then had the Man changed so drastically? What had happened to him? And what was going on between him and Legolas? There was tension there, for all Legolas' vows of loyalty, and Gimli had seen the way Aragorn looked at the Elf. Faramir had said that he had hurt him . . .

They had scant hours, a day at most, before the army marched. That was little time to get to the bottom of all this, and Faramir was proving a surprisingly stubborn nut to crack. The lad was ready to give up his life for a Man who was clearly a few shims short of level, and he valued a spot of land more than his own family. Men would probably admire his devotion to King and country, Gimli thought sourly. Men could be impossibly sentimental at times.

Well, there was still one more person who had been present at that Tower meeting. It was high time Gimli had it out with Aragorn himself, and this time Legolas wasn't going to hold him back.

Gimli strode purposefully up the main stair, his guard following along behind him. Messengers were hurrying in all directions, and the second level corridor was full of Men: soldiers, courtiers, and guards. The stone walls echoed with the tramp of boots and the muttered conversations of large Men who looked uncomfortable and out of place within doors. Many of them were huddled in groups, attempting to whisper. Whispering did not come naturally to them.

Gimli followed the trail of bustling messengers back to the King's Library. Here the stone was covered by planks of shining oak pegged together so smoothly that even Gimli's eye could hardly see their junctions. Sunlight streamed through the south windows, casting the room in a golden haze. The air was rich with the comforting smells of sun-warmed leather, parchment and dust.

Aragorn and Éomer were bent over a large map spread on a heavy oak table. "Here," Aragorn was saying, tracing a line with a blunt forefinger, "this river runs all the way to Belfalas. Half a day's march from Dol Amroth, and we can water the horses at the ford."

Éomer nodded. "The hills should give good cover, too. I assume we leave at dawn, my lord?"

Aragorn grimaced. "Yes. The scouts will ride out tonight, but I doubt that they'll be able to prevent the enemy's spies from seeing our movements. We shall have to –" he broke off, catching sight of Gimli in the doorway. He straightened, frowning.

Gimli heard the guards behind him move belatedly into action. They'd been watching the crush of Men in the corridor, of course, and had completely missed the intruder at chest height. But Éomer smiled in welcome, and at a small gesture from Aragorn they withdrew again.

"Lord Gimli," Aragorn said, with a slightly strained smile, "to what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Oh, nothing much," Gimli said, ignoring the awkwardness of this greeting. "It's a nice day, the cooks have mid-day meal ready in the hall, and you're launching an invasion in the morning. I thought maybe you'd like to break first for a bite to eat."

One of the scribes stifled a laugh. Éomer looked down, a suspicious quirk to his lips. Aragorn glanced aside. For the first time Gimli noticed Legolas. The Elf was standing next to one of the large windows lit with the sunlight that filled the airy chamber. He was watching the others, making no apparent effort to conceal himself, and yet Gimli had not seen him until now. Gimli gritted his teeth in exasperation. _How does he _do _that?_

"Indeed," Aragorn said. "I would suggest, Master Dwarf, that it is not an _invasion _we speak of, but a defensive measure to protect our lands, including, may I say, Aglarond. But the point is taken." He raised his voice. "We shall have one hour, gentlemen. Thank you."

There was a murmur of voices as the others bowed to the two Kings, and slowly the room cleared. Éomer looked at Aragorn. "If I may, my lord, I would speak with you this afternoon."

Aragorn nodded, still looking at the map. "Of course," he said.

Éomer bowed. "Then I will take my leave," he said. "I must see to my lady Éowyn. She is somewhat upset, as you might imagine."

Inwardly Gimli cheered this small rebuke. Aragorn blinked, but recovered quickly. "I understand," he said. "It is a difficult time for us all. Please convey my good wishes to the lady, and tell her that if there is aught I can do to aid her . . ."

Éomer held his gaze. "She is a lady of Rohan, my lord. I would thank you not to offer her promises which you cannot keep."

Aragorn colored, but Éomer did not seem to notice. "By your leave, my lord," he said, and walked quietly from the room.

Now only Legolas and Gimli remained. Aragorn was looking after Éomer, chewing at his lower lip. He seemed to pay little attention to either of them. Gimli settled his stance, bracing his legs wide apart, and fixed Legolas with a look that said _I can wait all day._

Legolas glanced from Gimli to Aragorn and back again, his eyes narrowing. Gimli wondered if the Elf's hesitation was for his sake, or Aragorn's. Faramir might have placed himself at the King's mercy, but Gimli had no intention of doing any such thing, not until he had an explanation for Aragorn's recent behavior. On the other hand, if Faramir was right and Aragorn _had _hurt Legolas . . . all the guards in the world would not save him.

Aragorn himself broke the stalemate, glancing at Gimli with eyebrows raised. "Was there something more, Master Dwarf?"

"As it happens, there was," Gimli said. He took the opportunity to sit down, tilting a straight-backed chair onto two legs and thumping his boots on the table. Aragorn pulled his map aside just in time.

Gimli made a show of taking out his pipe, examining it and rubbing it against his sleeve until it was polished to his satisfaction. He could feel Aragorn and Legolas both watching him, but did not look up. "We never did have that nightcap, Aragorn," he said, patting his pockets. "Both of us have been so busy, what with one thing and another. And you rushing off tomorrow – at dawn, of course, very symbolic I'm sure – I thought, if not now, when?"

He produced his small leather pipeweed pouch and glanced up. Aragorn's arms were folded, his face a study of combined annoyance and amusement. Legolas' expression was unreadable.

"So," Gimli continued, tamping down his pipe, "how are the plans coming along? Need any help?"

"Gimli," Legolas began in a warning tone, but Aragorn lifted a hand.

"Peace," he said. "Gimli is right. It has been far too long since we had a moment to talk together. So . . . we shall talk."

Legolas subsided, looking wary. Aragorn felt in the pouch at his belt and withdrew his own pipe. "What's on your mind, Master Dwarf?"

Gimli shrugged. "Not much. The city fortifications are nearly complete, with a portcullis on the main gate _and _that second archery level that Faramir wanted. Oh, that reminds me, you seem to have locked Gondor's Steward in the dungeons. Care to comment on that, Aragorn?"

Legolas' lips thinned. Aragorn stared at Gimli with a small, fixed smile that did not reach his eyes. He spoke without turning his head. "You may go, Legolas."

Gimli nearly choked on his pipe. Legolas was a Prince and a ruler in his own right – did Aragorn really think he could dismiss him so casually? He could have swatted the King upside the head as a reminder of common courtesy, had Aragorn been within reach.

Legolas' eyes flashed in a way that Gimli recognized as prelude to a storm. The Elf was generally even-tempered, but he had a touchy sense of pride. Gimli knew that very well, having provoked him often enough to learn the limits of his patience. Yet Legolas did not move. When he spoke his voice was as soft and controlled as ever.

"By your leave, my lord, I will stay."

Gimli rolled his eyes. Legolas seemed determined to humor Aragorn's delusions, but there had to be a limit. Surely even Legolas would push back at some point.

Aragorn frowned. He turned sharply to face the Elf, opening his mouth as if in rebuke. But Legolas met his eyes with a level gaze, and Aragorn stopped. For a long moment they looked at one another in silence.

Gimli watched them. It was not exactly a battle of wills. Legolas was not defying the King, not quite. But a line had been drawn, and it was one that Aragorn was not yet willing to cross. _King of Men,_ Gimli thought. _Only one of the three of us in here is a Man._ _But we're friends. That means that we respect the King of Gondor, even when you are being a git, and it means that _you don't push us.

Then Aragorn smiled. "Of course you may do as you like, Legolas. I only thought that Gimli and I might have a smoke, and I imagined that you would not care for it. But who am I to fathom the ways of Elves?"

He reached to clasp Legolas' shoulder, but stopped. There was nothing unusual in the gesture – it was an old habit between them – but the arrested motion caught Gimli's attention. Aragorn's hesitation turned the friendly touch into something more. Legolas did not pull away. He stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the King. Aragorn held the Elf's gaze, his hand inches from the worn leather of Legolas' tunic. Then slowly he let his hand fall back to his side.

"Do as you like," Aragorn said again. His tone was abrupt, almost harsh. Turning away from Legolas, he sat down in the chair opposite Gimli's and drew out his pipe. "Now, Master Dwarf," he said. "Where were we?"

He attempted to speak casually, but his whole body was rigid with tension. Legolas stood just out of arm's reach, glancing between Aragorn and Gimli. Gimli tapped the stem of his pipe against his teeth. He'd much prefer to have this conversation without Legolas, but there was little chance of the Elf leaving them now.

Well, so be it. Gimli had never been one to stand down from a challenge, and if Aragorn continued in this vein it might well be a conversation that Legolas should hear.

"Faramir," he said, ignoring the weight of Legolas' gaze upon him. The Elf was clearly reluctant to test Aragorn upon this point, but Gimli felt that they had little choice. If Aragorn truly was as far gone as Faramir believed then it was best that they know it now.

"What happened in that Tower, Aragorn?"

A muscle twitched in Legolas' jaw, but he said nothing. Aragorn studied Gimli, his grey eyes cold. "Lord Faramir attempted to use the palantír to contact the enemy," he said. "He was apprehended, and has been secured to await trial for treason."

"How do you know he was in touch with the Haradrim?" Gimli said. "Did you see them in the palantír?"

Aragorn's lips pressed into a flat line. "I saw enough."

"Did you? Because Faramir said –"

"Enough, elvellon." Legolas' quiet voice cut through his words, bringing Gimli up short. But Aragorn was frowning, his pipe forgotten in his hand as he leaned forward.

"You spoke with Faramir?" Aragorn made every effort to sound calm, but Gimli heard the tremor in his voice.

He hesitated, glancing from Aragorn to Legolas and back again. This was dangerous ground, and he had said too much. With typical bravado, therefore, he kept going.

"Of course I did, Aragorn. Faramir is my friend. I'm not going to leave him alone in the dungeons to rot, am I?"

"He meant no harm by it, Estel," Legolas murmured. "Else he would not tell you of it. You know this."

Aragorn breathed deeply, his eyes locked on Gimli. His hand clenched white-knuckled upon the stem of his pipe.

Gimli shifted uneasily in his chair. What Legolas said was perfectly true, but it didn't make Aragorn's stare any less penetrating. With rare discretion he decided that it was best not to mention Arwen's visit to the dungeons, or Legolas'.

"You didn't answer my question, Aragorn," he said, taking refuge in the change of subject. "How do you know that Faramir tried to contact the enemy?"

"I know," Aragorn said flatly. He stood, pushing his pipe into his belt. "And I am not beholden to your questions, Master Dwarf."

"Aragorn, this is absurd!" Gimli burst out. "Faramir is your friend too, and you're going to lock him away without any evidence? If there is an enemy, you're playing right into his hands! Who will defend the city while you're gone?"

"I left the city defenses in your care, Gimli," Aragorn snapped. "Do not make me regret that choice."

Turning his head, he shouted, "Aelon!"

There was a pause, and then the heavy door to the library opened. The captain of the guard stepped into the room. He was a tall Man with broad shoulders and a strong frame that was just beginning to run to fat.

"Your Majesty?"

"Double the guard on Lord Faramir," Aragorn ordered. "No one is to see him, you understand? No one enters the dungeons without my express permission."

The Man bowed again. "Yes, my lord." He hesitated a moment. "The Lady Éowyn will wish to visit him, sire."

Aragorn straightened, drawing a hissing breath between his teeth. "_Éowyn_."

"She is his wife," Legolas interjected swiftly. "It would be cruel to separate them."

"Then she may remain there with him," Aragorn said. "There is a cell next to his, is there not?"

Gimli snorted in disbelief, but Aragorn did not seem amused. He turned his head slowly toward Gimli. Despite the brightness of the sunlight his eyes were fully dilated, black save for a thin ring of grey around the pupil. "Do you have a comment, Lord Gimli?"

Gimli stared at him. "Do I – you cannot be serious! She is a _lady_, and in her condition –"

"She has conspired with a traitor to Gondor!" Aragorn shouted, so suddenly that Gimli flinched. He pointed a trembling hand at Gimli. "Do not make me send you there with her, Master Dwarf. Who knows how long it would be before even you tire of the stone and the dark?"

Aragorn's voice was sharpened to a brittle edge, his mouth twisted in a mocking smile. Gimli stared at him in shock. There was a roaring in his ears, and distantly he remembered Arwen's words. _There is darkness in him that you wish to forget, and cruelty that you dare not see._

_That is not Aragorn,_ Gimli thought. _Something is making him do this._ But to his sorrow he found that he could not quite believe that it was true. Faramir had planted a seed of doubt that gnawed at him. And his own pragmatic nature held little patience for questions of motive. If the result was the same, what did the cause matter?

Then Legolas stepped forward. Laying a hand gently on Aragorn's arm, he spoke to him in words too soft for Gimli to make out. The language was Sindarin, though, and as Gimli watched Aragorn bowed his head, canting toward the liquid fall of Legolas' voice.

Once he asked a question, touching roughened fingers to the hand upon his arm, and Legolas answered in the same tongue.

Finally Aragorn straightened. Pulling away from Legolas he faced the captain who stood waiting at the door. "Lady Éowyn may visit once each day, accompanied by no fewer than two of the King's Guard," he said. "The soldiers of Ithilien shall not attend her, is that clear? I charge you, Aelon, to . . . keep her safe."

"Yes, my lord." The captain did not look happy. Gimli did not blame him. Faced with the task of explaining this new restriction to Lady Éowyn, he'd be fairly unhappy as well.

Aelon withdrew, pulling the door closed behind him. Silence descended in his wake. Aragorn rubbed at his chin, frowning deeply. Legolas watched him. Gimli watched them both.

He didn't like it. Even worse than Aragorn's threats, the entire exchange between Legolas and Aragorn left him feeling unsettled, and uneasy. This whispering in Elvish, the way Aragorn responded to Legolas' voice, that touch: it was wrong. Gimli felt it in his bones. If their friendship were a mineshaft it would have collapsed from the structural stress. Gimli had an urge to evacuate survivors and shore up the pilings.

He cleared his throat. "Aragorn . . ."

Aragorn raised a hand. "Not now, Master Dwarf."

"But you can't –"

"_Not now!_" Aragorn whipped around, fast as a snake. He stared at Gimli, and then spoke in measured tones.

"Where were you last night?"

Gimli blinked. "What?"

"When Faramir entered the Tower, the guard was not there." Aragorn stalked toward him, his lean face intent. "Where did he go? Who helped Lord Faramir betray his country?"

Gimli had once heard Merry say that the best defense was a good offense. At the time he had wondered why Hobbits would bother stating something so obvious. For Dwarves, the concept was not so much a maxim as a creed to live by.

He shrugged. "Why don't you ask the guard, Aragorn? Or are you too busy accusing your friends to bother with traditional investigation any more?"

Aragorn sucked in his breath. Gimli held his gaze, but was aware of Legolas watching them. If the Elf grew any tenser they could string him and use him for a bow.

"We have been somewhat pressed for time, it seems," Aragorn said. "But rest assured, Gimli, that a full investigation will take place upon our return from Harad. In the meanwhile . . ." his eyes flicked aside to Legolas, and held the Elf's gaze for a long moment.

"_Le na vellyn_,"2 Legolas said softly.

Aragorn looked back at Gimli. "There are matters to which I must attend. You will excuse me."

He strode to the door, closing it firmly behind him. Gimli sagged a little. That had been close. Too close by half, and if Aragorn questioned him like that again he'd have little choice but to lie outright – a lie that would be discovered when they questioned that guard. Given Aragorn's current state of mind, he didn't care for his prospects.

"I trust you are satisfied?" Legolas' voice was cold.

Gimli looked around. "Satisfied?"

"You wished to question Aragorn directly." Legolas bit off the words. "Despite my request, despite every warning, you have done so. I trust you achieved your purpose?"

The accusation stung. Gimli stuck out his chin, his beard bristling. "You think I planned that? All I did was ask a few questions. It's not my fault he's gone bloody insane!"

"Isn't it?" Legolas snapped. "You know the danger, Gimli! I have told you – do you think that I invented it? Aragorn is all but lost to us, and now you would push him further into shadow!"

"Aragorn? I'm the one two steps away from being thrown in the dungeons, and you're worried about _Aragorn?_"

Legolas took a deep breath, gripping the solid back of a chair. Gimli heard the wood creak beneath his hands.

"I will say this once more." There was a note of finality in Legolas' voice that Gimli recognized. There would be no arguing with the Elf after this.

"Aragorn is under attack by something that has twisted his mind and touched his _faer_ – his soul. I do not know what it is, but I feel it: a shadow that blackens his thoughts. Give him cause to suspect you, reason to lose faith in you, and the shadow will triumph. It might lead him to hurt you, but that is only a means to an end. It means to consume him."

"And what of you?" Gimli demanded. "This shadow, if it exists – what hurt would it do to _you_, Legolas? Don't you see what's happening? Aragorn goes half mad – but a bit of Elvish from you and he's sane again? Is that _natural?_"

"It is not magic," Legolas said. "Aragorn _chooses _to listen. He chooses to fight. Sindarin is the tongue of his childhood. It simply . . . helps him to focus."

"Right." Gimli would have used the same tone if someone had suggested that he shave his beard and pass as an Elf child of Rivendell.

Legolas sighed. "I am sorry, Gimli. I know that you did nothing to deserve Aragorn's condemnation, or mine. I spoke out of fear for the harm done to him, but that is no fault of yours."

Gimli snorted. "Now you decide to be reasonable. Mark the date, the Valar have returned to Middle-earth!"

A fleeting smile rewarded this sally, but Legolas still looked troubled. Gimli tugged at his beard, trying to think of how to phrase his next words.

"He is not the friend you knew," he said at last. "I don't know what has caused it, or why it is so – but he has changed. You know that. He can't go on like this, Legolas. He'll only get worse."

Legolas closed his eyes. He bowed his head, folding his arms close around his body. "I am not a child, Gimli. I know what the shadow would have him do, and I know that he struggles to resist it. But he is still the King. You have not the power to force him to yield, and you cannot help him in this way."

He fell silent for a long moment, and when he continued his voice was soft. "Please, elvellon . . . do not antagonize him further. Do not challenge him. The time will come for that, but it is not now. Faramir is safe for now. I ask you to let it go."

"And let him go to war," Gimli said bitterly.

"It will not come to that," Legolas said. "If it becomes clear that there truly is no threat from Harad then Aragorn will draw back the army."

_You hope,_ Gimli thought. But there was no point in drawing the argument out further. Legolas took his leave, doubtless going in search of Aragorn again. To offer support, he would say. He would go to Aragorn in friendship.

Gimli thought about that. Aragorn was his friend as well, but that had not saved him from the threat of the dungeons. Legolas had. And Gimli remembered the way Aragorn had looked at Legolas, the hovering, hesitant touch of his hand.

_It means to consume him._ At the rate Aragorn was going, the only one left between him and the darkness would be Legolas. _It might lead him to hurt you_ . . . and Aragorn had already hurt Legolas. Gimli was certain of it now. But still the Elf stayed. He _knew_ the danger, better than any of them save Arwen, perhaps. Yet he stayed.

_What would you give_, Gimli had asked Legolas. But perhaps the real question was: what would Elessar take?

* * *

1 _lacha_ _nîn:_ "my flame," Sindarin. A pet name.

2 _Le na vellyn:_ You are with friends.


	21. Gimli's Choice

"He went consenting, or else he was no King.

. . . It was no one's place to say to him, "It is time to make the offering."

– Mary Renault, _The_ _King Must Die_

Chapter 20: Gimli's Choice

Supper that night was a quiet affair. The Great Hall was crowded as ever, but it lacked the festive atmosphere of the previous evening. Faramir's arrest had cast a pall over the court. Courtiers, lords, and ladies sat and talked quietly at the long tables, and the servants moved among them with a subdued air. A hush fell as the King entered, and the company rose to face west in silence. But Gimli could see the people exchange glances amongst themselves, and his neck prickled with tension.

He avoided Aragorn's gaze as they sat down again. They supped in silence, and at the end of the meal Gimli's plate was empty, though he could not remember what he had eaten. At his side Legolas ate sparingly, with the same swift grace he showed in everything he did. Now and again he would glance up, meeting the King's eyes, as if the simple act of dining together could somehow restore Aragorn to normalcy. Even the lady Éowyn ate, though with downcast eyes, and Gimli saw her slip some delicacies into her napkin, wrapping them away out of sight.

Arwen ate nothing.

Gimli was vaguely aware of this, as dishes were passed among the company and the Queen's plate remained empty. By the end of the meal Legolas' concerned gaze was turned as often upon her as upon her husband, and Gimli felt the Elf stir as if to speak, but she did not look at him.

She rose at last to bring the farewell cup to the King, and Aragorn stood to take it from her, addressing the assembled company before he drank. But Gimli had no ears for what he said. His eyes were locked on Arwen. He felt as if he was truly seeing the Queen for the first time since his arrival in Minas Tirith, and his breath came swift in the shock of recognition.

Arwen stood quietly, her head slightly bowed, a net of jewels binding her raven hair. She was beautiful, with the beauty of the Elves: enough to make any male alive stop for a closer look. But Gimli knew her as a friend. It was not mere beauty that held his gaze. There was nothing in particular to catch Gimli's attention, and yet . . .

Gimli had been raised in the mountain caverns of the Dwarves in exile, and spent most of his early life as a nomad, wandering with his clan from one small excavation to the next. Often they met other Dwarves and journeyed together for a time, a few months or a year before changing fortunes and lack of resources forced them to separate again.

In Dwarven culture the greatest treasures were hidden. History, artifacts, even language were secreted away, not spoken of outside the safety of the halls deep beneath the earth. And the most greatly treasured, and most closely guarded, were not possessions at all but the future of the Khazad.

Dwarf women did not often travel, but the demands of the exile gave little choice. When they did go upon the road they dressed in every way identically to their male counterparts, and were fierce and capable warriors in their own right. For a young Dwarf far from the halls of his ancestors, then, joining with another party of Dwarves offered the chance for companionship, but it was fraught with the potential for error and grave insult.

Dwarven courtship demanded close attention to particulars, and above all else was extremely _discrete._

Gimli had an eye for detail, honed from youth to be attentive to female subtleties. A slight change in posture, the incline of a head, the curve of a neck and the soft texture of a beard . . . well, perhaps that one did not apply here. But his gaze was riveted as Arwen gave the cup into her husband's hands, and as she stepped back one white arm curled protectively over the slight swell of her belly, and he knew.

He shot a look at Legolas, to see if the Elf realized. Legolas met his gaze with eyes that were full and dark with meaning. He held Gimli's look for a long moment, and then glanced deliberately aside, to Aragorn, and back again. The warning was clear. Gimli subsided, his mind whirling with the implications of his discovery.

Arwen was with child. And Aragorn had said nothing of it, not to him, not to the court – did Aragorn even know? That could explain some of the King's protectiveness, but then why would Legolas warn Gimli against speaking of it? No, he'd do better to assume that Aragorn was ignorant.

Then the Queen had concealed it from him – why? Durin's beard, did he need to ask? He'd seen with his own eyes how Aragorn reacted to surprises these days. In his current frame of mind he'd likely accuse the Queen of treachery, and he might well see his future heir as a rival of which to be disposed.

Gimli shied away from that thought – this was _Aragorn _after all. He would never do such a thing. He could not. Still the doubt was there, growing in his mind: _But what if he did?_

Legolas jarred his elbow, and he blinked, focusing again on his surroundings. The others were raising their glasses, joining as Aragorn drank the cup of farewell. Gimli lifted his tankard to numb lips, but he did not taste it.

He remembered Arwen's despair the previous night, in the dungeons. _There is darkness in him . . . I have seen it._ Surely . . . surely it was not possible to force an Elf to conceive? Surely Aragorn had not . . .

His hand clenched so tightly upon his tankard that the tin flexed and gave in his grip. Mahal, this was _Aragorn _he was thinking of! Aragorn would _never_ . . . but he could not finish the thought. For though Gimli's whole soul would deny that Aragorn could ever hurt a lady so, still he could not ignore the evidence before him.

Darkness filled Aragorn like a tide, drowning every trace of the friend that Gimli had known. He was changed, and though Gimli would once have scoffed at the notion that Aragorn could ever be capable of violence, much less rape, the truth was that now he simply did not know. He did not know, and that frightened him more than anything else.

Aragorn set the goblet down, bidding good night to the company. Gimli watched as the King and Queen withdrew, Arwen's hand resting on her husband's arm. He searched for some sign of tenderness between them; some hint that he was mistaken. But Arwen's eyes were downcast, avoiding the King's gaze. And Aragorn seemed distracted, scanning the crowd before he turned away, his eyes hooded and dark. They parted before they reached the door, Aragorn turning down a side passage while Arwen trailed alone toward the Royal Chambers.

Slowly the Hall began to empty in their wake. Gimli looked up as Legolas moved past him, and he caught the Elf's sleeve. "Where do you think you're off to?"

Legolas looked at him. "The army leaves at dawn, Gimli. It would be prudent to get some sleep."

Gimli was not fooled. He'd learned a few things about Elven wordplay over the years, and knew the signs. Legolas had not, after all, said that _he _intended to sleep. "You're going after him again, aren't you?"

Legolas glanced away for a moment, his fine lips compressed. "It is our last chance before the march, Master Dwarf. I must at least try."

Gimli sighed. "I know," he said. He smiled at Legolas' look of surprise. "Really, Legolas, did you think I'd tell you to let him go? I hope I care more for my friends than that!"

Legolas relaxed a little. "I know, elvellon," he said. "You would do the same for me, were I in Aragorn's place."

Gimli considered for a moment. "Nah," he said. "I'd let you fall. Far too much bother to be chasing after fool Wood-elves, you know."

That surprised a laugh from Legolas. Gimli chuckled in return, getting to his feet. It had been far too long since he'd heard his friend laugh properly. But the moment soon passed, and Legolas sobered.

He stepped back, starting to turn away, but Gimli moved his hand to the Elf's wrist, stopping him. He took a deep breath, meeting Legolas' questioning gaze.

"About Arwen . . ."

Legolas went very still. "She has told no one," he said. He looked directly into Gimli's eyes. "I would ask you to respect her wishes in that."

Gimli swallowed. "And Aragorn?"

Legolas closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. "That is one of the matters I hope to correct, elvellon."

He moved again to pull away, but Gimli tightened his hold. Legolas sighed, opening his eyes. He could break the Dwarf's grip, Gimli knew, but for the moment he stayed.

"Did Aragorn," Gimli began, and stopped. His voice was hoarse. He licked his lips and tried again. "Has he . . . has he hurt her, Legolas?"

Legolas was silent, his head bowed, though he did not move away. For a long moment Gimli did not think he would answer. When at last he spoke his voice was very soft. "The shadow . . ."

"To Mordor with that," Gimli snarled. "I'm not interested in excuses, Legolas. _Did Aragorn –_"

"No." Legolas looked up. "He did not force her, Gimli. You would," he released a shaky breath, "you would know it if he had. But there are other forms of hurt, and many are not physical. I will not say that she is unharmed."

Gimli let go of Legolas' wrist, taking a step back. His leg bumped against the bench behind him. "You say that," he whispered. The force of his reaction, disgust and horror, surprised even him. He had expected Legolas to dismiss the suspicion out of hand. That the Elf would consider it shook him to the core.

"You think Aragorn capable of _that . . . _and you still believe that you can save him?"

Legolas drew a slow breath. "I will," he said. The words carried the force of an oath. "I must."

"And if you fail?" Gimli stared at him. "What then?"

He did not really expect an answer. Legolas had repeatedly denied the possibility that Aragorn was beyond saving. But Legolas was silent, and watching him Gimli saw all manner of emotions flicker through the Elf's expressive eyes. It seemed that even his stubborn loyalty could not deny the danger of his plan.

"That is why you must stay, Gimli," Legolas said at last.

Gimli started to protest, but Legolas raised a hand. "No, elvellon. Hear me. I know that you would come with us, and I have told you before why, for Aragorn's sake – for your own sake – you must not. But there is also another reason, of which I could not speak before. Imagine now what would happen if I should fail and Elessar return unchanged in three or six months time, and he finds Arwen waiting for him and heavy with child?"

A chill passed over Gimli, as though his veins were flooded with ice. It was a moment before he could speak. "I don't suppose that he'd break out pipeweed and ale in celebration?"

Legolas' lips curved in a thin smile. "We can hope, elvellon. I would believe it so, that at the last extreme Aragorn would overcome the darkness by his strength of will alone. But if I am wrong . . . I will not risk hurt to the Evenstar, nor to her child."

"But if I go with you –" Gimli began.

Legolas shook his head. "You would break your promise, and disobey the King's command. And Aragorn would see another friend turned spy against him, and you would be imprisoned, or exiled, or worse. You know this. And the city – and the Queen – would be defenseless."

Gimli fell silent, chewing at his mustache. He knew that Legolas was right, but it galled him to admit it. From the time he had come of age he had fought at the forefront of every battle, leading every charge. He had swallowed his pride and all but begged his father to recommend him for the Fellowship because he could not bear to stand aside and let others fight on his behalf. He was a warrior of the line of Durin, and he knew his duty.

Even if this battle could not be won with his axe, and his duty meant that he must stay behind, still he would not forsake it. But by Mahal it was hard!

He glowered up at Legolas. "Go on then," he said. "And – be careful."

To his credit Legolas did not smile. He nodded, once, and grasped Gimli's arm in salute. "Always, elvellon," he said.

Gimli returned the gesture, gripping Legolas' arm as if he could somehow hold the Elf here, and keep him safe. But all too soon Legolas slipped away.

Gimli watched as he followed the path Aragorn had taken from the Great Hall. Legolas moved with unconscious grace, as if every step were part of a dance of the Elf's own making. Gimli's heart beat a little faster at the sight. Legolas was a warrior to match any in Middle-earth. He knew that. If it came down to a fight, Aragorn could not defeat him. Gimli knew it. And yet Gimli feared for his friend. He feared for both of them, if Aragorn continued on this path.

Watching Legolas with the King was like seeing the Elf enter an unstable cavern: every instinct Gimli possessed cried warning. There was danger here, and it grew greater with every touch, every look, every time that Legolas pulled Aragorn back from the edge.

But Legolas was right. Gimli could not stop him, not unless he sat on the Elf to keep him leaving with Aragorn. And he would not do that. For all his fears, Gimli could not bring himself to believe that Aragorn was truly gone.

So he would stay. And because he was also a Dwarf, with a Dwarf's pragmatism, he would prepare for the worst even as he hoped for Aragorn's return to the friend that he loved. He would stay for Arwen, and he would protect her from a threat that he could not have imagined a month ago.

Gimli would protect her from her husband, the man who was his second closest friend. He would protect her from the wrath of a man who should have loved her, a man who was so twisted now that Gimli truly feared what he might do. And deep in the most secret heart of the Dwarves, a part of him wept that it was so.

*~*~*

Legolas moved swiftly down the passage after the King. There was little chance of stopping Aragorn now, he knew, but he had to try. Aragorn needed him. And he needed to stay away from that cursed palantír.

Legolas caught him halfway to the Tower. Indeed, Aragorn had stopped in a deserted corridor and was waiting for him. Legolas scarcely had time to wonder at this, however, for the King began speaking the moment he came into view.

"Finally. What kept you?"

Legolas blinked, approaching warily. "I was not aware that we had an appointment, my lord."

One side of Aragorn's mouth drew up in a half-smile. "We did not. But I would speak with you now, since you are here. I have grown . . . accustomed to your counsel."

His gaze lingered on the Elf as he said this. If Legolas had been human, he would have fidgeted. As it was, he returned Aragorn's stare with outward calm. "What do you wish to discuss?"

Aragorn sighed and turned away, pushing his hands into his hair. "Éomer. He wants 'assurances' that Faramir will have a fair trial. Assurances! As if I'm to answer to him! What business is it of his what I do in my own land?"

Legolas remained still, watching as Aragorn paced. "He is brother to the Steward's wife, and by the law of Gondor that makes him brother to Faramir as well."

Aragorn snorted. "Then he should regret those ties to traitors and conspirators. War threatens his lands, and he frets over the rights of one who betrayed him to the enemy!"

"We do not know that," Legolas said. "We have yet to hear what Faramir intended with the palantír, or what purpose he had in the Tower. He loves his country, Aragorn. I do not think he would betray her."

"Then you are deceived as well," Aragorn said. He sighed again. He looked weary to Legolas' eyes, weary almost to the point of sickness. The flickering torchlight cast deep shadows beneath his cheeks and eyes, and his skin was pale. "I had hoped that you at least might see . . . but the enemy is cunning. First Faramir, and now Éomer, and soon you too will turn against me."

Legolas stepped forward and laid a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "I will not," he said, wishing that he could draw the shadow aside and force the Man to believe him. His frustration carried into his voice, and he spoke with quiet vehemence. "I have been your friend for all of these years, Estel, and I have stood beside you through many dangers. I will not abandon you now."

Aragorn met his gaze, his grey eyes watchful. There was fear in his eyes, Legolas thought, but hope as well. Most of all, they were _Aragorn's _eyes. In that moment the shadow's power waned, and Legolas saw his friend clearly.

Then Aragorn's pupils dilated, the blackness filling his eyes like the spreading of a poisoned pool. "You were in the Tower, Legolas. You saw what he did."

Legolas fought down the urge to take a step back. Aragorn's look was intent, with some purpose that Legolas did not like. "I saw," he answered. "But there may be more that I did not see. It is no treason to seek the truth, Estel."

But though he called Aragorn by the old name he knew it was a falsity. The connection they shared had been fleeting, and it was now gone. The shadow waxed strong again.

"That may be," Elessar said. He lifted a hand to Legolas' face. His calloused fingers feathered along Legolas' jaw as his thumb brushed gently over one high cheekbone. Legolas repressed a shudder.

"Be careful, old friend," Aragorn said softly. His eyes were dreamy, as if looking through Legolas to something that only he could see. "There are dangers against which even you might not stand."

He stepped back, lowering his hand. Legolas released a pent-up breath as the knot in his stomach eased. But Aragorn was turning away, heading back toward the Tower. Instinctively, not daring to pause for thought, Legolas moved to stop him.

He caught Aragorn's wrist. "Wait."

Aragorn turned back, his eyes widening in surprise as his lips parted. "What are you –"

"It is the last night before the army marches," Legolas said. He met Aragorn's gaze, knowing that this was the last thing he had to offer, their last defense against the shadow, the uttermost appeal to Aragorn's heart. He could only hope that it would be enough.

"Your wife needs you, Aragorn," he said. "Please, go to her. Take this last night that you have together."

_And stay away from that palantír,_ he added silently. Arwen carried Aragorn's child – a child that she had conceived with him in love, even if he did not know it. Legolas clung to that thought. She had trusted him, once. Once, he had been deserving of that trust.

Legolas had told Gimli that he would not risk hurt to the Evenstar, and that was true. For love of her he would stand guard outside the chamber, even as he sent Aragorn within. But for love of Aragorn he prayed that the watch would be unnecessary.

Aragorn frowned, a thin line drawing between his brows. He made as if to speak, and stopped. He was visibly torn, hesitant between the two paths before him. Legolas longed to do something more, to physically drag Aragorn away if that was what it took. But this choice must be made freely if it were to have any meaning.

Then Aragorn straightened. "I cannot," he said.

Legolas started to protest, but Aragorn shook his head. "The danger is too great," he said. "I have to . . . I cannot. Arwen understands."

Legolas watched him stride away. His hands clenched into fists. _So close!_ Aragorn had been so close. He had seen him, had spoken to him. But the shadow had pulled him back, and Legolas had failed.

Aragorn went again to the Tower, to dwell in the dark dreams of the palantír. Already Legolas imagined that he could feel the slow thick power turning toward him, the weight of the palantír's gaze upon him. The shadow lapped coils of malice and fear about Aragorn, dragging him beyond Legolas' reach.

He swore under his breath. _You shall not have him!_ The shadow had won this battle, but it was not the end. Aragorn was stronger than this. _He was._ And even if he was not, Legolas would fight for him. He would not let Aragorn fall.


	22. The Gathering Dark

"Though now we must appear bloody and cruel,

As by our hands and this our present act

You see we do, and yet see you but our hands

And this the bleeding business they have done.

Our hearts you see not."

-- William Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar_

Chapter 21: The Gathering Dark

All of Minas Tirith turned out to see the army off. Standing high behind the outermost wall of the courtyard, Gimli looked over the throngs that crowded the lower levels and spilled out into fields. The army stood ranked in its thousands upon the plain; figures of Men and horses shrouded in the early morning mist. A pale corona lightened the hills to the south and east: the first light spreading into the dark blue sky. Shreds of cloud obscured the fading stars.

Something moved out on the field. The flickering lines of torchlight stirred as the soldiers parted. A group of figures on horseback moved through their midst. Squinting, Gimli made out the form of Aragorn, dressed in full armor save for his helmet. To his right was Éomer. The young King was likewise dressed for war, his lance strapped to his saddle and his flowing horsetail helm unmistakable even in the pre-dawn light.

Legolas rode at Aragorn's left. The Elf was clad in his usual hunting tunic, with his quiver, knives, and bow strapped at his back. He alone wore neither helm nor armor. He looked terribly slender in contrast to the bulky Men around him.

Gimli frowned, remembering the countless times he had seen Legolas in battle. The archer was far from helpless, and those who judged him by appearances rarely lived to repeat their mistake. Gimli knew that. But he could not help feeling protective of his friend.

Aragorn spurred his horse to the front of the lines. The sky was lighter now, tinged with pink and gold, and Gimli could see clearly as the King galloped the length of the line. The ground mist swirled grey tendrils in his wake.

It was far too distant for Gimli to hear what the King was saying, but he saw the flash as Aragorn drew Andúril from its sheath. The sword flared as if with its own light, and then came the roar as the army answered.

A horn pierced the air, and another, and another, ringing over the tramp of boots and hooves. Like the surging of a tide they followed him: Men and horses moving with one purpose. For a moment Gimli caught sight of Legolas, riding to the King's side, and then they were swallowed in the sea of warriors.

The sun crested the hills, shining upon the multitude of flags in white and gold and green. The Men's armor gleamed in the dawn light, rings of steel like silvered glass. Gimli looked upon the army's march and marveled that a thing so dark, with such deadly purpose, could be so beautiful.

He looked up, to where the Queen stood at his side. Arwen's eyes were fixed upon the moving tide, as if she could still see Aragorn in its midst. But when she spoke her voice was toneless, all but lost in the noise of the crowd below.

"He is gone."

"He will return, my lady," Gimli said, not knowing if she spoke to him, or even if she were aware of his presence. It did not matter. He answered her because he needed to say the words. More, he needed to hear them said. "He and the Elf both. You'll see. Too blockheaded stubborn not to come back, the both of them."

"No." Arwen shook her head. A tear spilled past the rim of her eye, trailing down the soft curve of her cheek. "Aragorn is gone."

She took a deep breath, and her slender shoulders squared. "We have much to do."

With that she turned and strode back to the citadel, her long cloak billowing behind her. Startled, Gimli hurried after her. He had scarcely reached the center of the courtyard, however, when something caught his eye.

Slowing, he turned his steps toward the fountain at the junction of the courtyard paths. A slender white sapling grew there, mirrored in the reflecting pool. For a long moment he stared at it, unsure of what had drawn his attention. It looked much the same as it always had. And then he saw it.

It was now the middle of April, and the early sun promised warmth on this morning of Elessar's departure. Everywhere one looked new shoots were growing, in the fields and between the cracks of the city stones. The trees and flowering plants that Legolas' people had brought to Minas Tirith had turned the city into a spring riot of color.

But no new buds graced the sapling's outstretched branches. No sap welled from its tips. It remained as cold and dry as if in the depths of winter.

The White Tree was dying.

*~*~*

Aragorn found that he thought better when Legolas was nearby. It had taken him some time to realize it, for in the citadel he had been surrounded by councilors and advisors, all vying for his attention and arguing amongst themselves. Legolas had remained quiet, content to remain unnoticed.

Yet even in the citadel's chambers Aragorn had been glad of the Elf's counsel when the others had dispersed. And now, on their first night out from Minas Tirith with the rhythm of the army's march still pounding in his ears, he missed him.

He felt unsettled, restless, without the Elf's calming presence. Legolas had gone to tend to Arod, for the stallion refused to be tethered by any other. Aragorn thought that he knew how the horse felt. He paced the great tent that had been erected for him, the candle flames streaming in his wake. Long dormant muscles that had been abruptly re-awakened by the long ride twinged with every step. His skin prickled with dried sweat and grime.

He should be planning the assault on the Haradic army. But he had been assessing that for months, years it seemed, and he could not bear to think of it now. As it was he needed all his strength of will to resist the urge to consult the palantír again. It lay quiet now, hidden in a saddlebag next to his bed. He could feel it watching him.

Something moved behind him. He whirled, his hand going to the knife at his hip. There was nothing there. Aragorn froze for a long moment, searching the brightly lit interior, examining every tapestry and hanging blanket for movement, a misplaced lump in the cloth, a shadow that did not belong. Nothing.

He strode to the tent entrance and threw back the leather flap. The two guards outside saluted as he passed them. He stopped just beyond the threshold, breathing deeply.

The smell of wood smoke filled the night air. The dark plain was dotted with hundreds of cooking fires. Thousands of Men and horses overwhelmed the sweet grasses of the river valley and churned the earth to mud. The men called to one another, the horses neighed and stamped, and the ring of harness and metal echoed off of the surrounding hills.

But overhead the stars shone clearly, and lifting his eyes Aragorn could see the distant flicker of the sentries' fires all around the hills. Gradually his heart slowed.

"My lord?" The guard spoke from behind him, but Aragorn did not jump. "Is everything well?"

"No," Aragorn muttered. He turned back to face the guards. "Anlon, I want guards posted at every corner of this tent, and of Éomer King's as well. The enemy is not so stupid as to attack through the front door. Serith, send word to Lord Legolas that I wish to see him. I believe you'll find him with the horses."

"At once, Your Majesty." The guards bowed to him, but Aragorn caught the glance that they exchanged as he headed into the tent. His jaw clenched. Did they think that they could flaunt his authority even now? His hands itched to strike, to box their ears as a lesson in respect. But he said nothing.

The relative quiet within the tent was the worst of all. In the soft hiss of the braziers Aragorn could hear the whisperings outside, the rumors and conspiracies that flitted from one group of Men to the next. They thought him mad. They questioned him, spied on him, even within his own tent. Him, their King! How dare they? _How dare they?_

And in the back of his mind . . . _they turn against you. They will betray you. Already they have begun. Faramir . . . Éomer . . . Legolas. Already they have begun._

He reached to fill his pipe, but his hands were shaking. He fumbled with the pipe and dropped it, spilling pipeweed over the floor. He stared at it and was shocked to feel a hot prickling behind his eyes. With an oath he kicked the pipe aside and set to pacing again.

_They said that they loved you._

And Faramir loved his country, Legolas had said. See how he loved her. See how he betrayed her.

It was so hard to think. Perhaps he should use the palantír again. The effort it required was exhausting, and he was so tired already . . . but afterward, it was easier. Things were clearer in the slow lassitude that followed each session. He could see the connections, understand things that he might otherwise miss.

_Love is not enough. There must be control._

Control, yes. The pieces were in place: Lothíriel, Éowyn, and Gimli – but was it enough? Could it ever be enough?

_You can control him._

Aragorn shuddered. He could do it, he knew. Legolas was the last variable, the last one whom he could not predict. He could not permit that. He needed the Elf.

_Then take him. He is yours._

"No!" Aragorn whirled to stare at the shapeless leather of the saddlebag. "No. He was – he is my friend. I will give him another chance."

_He will betray you._

"Be silent!" Aragorn shouted. He clamped his hands over his ears. "Be silent! I _order _you –"

But the voice came directly into his mind, implacable, unstoppable. _He will betray Gondor._

Aragorn backed away. He was trembling. His protests were feeble, his thoughts torn away and scattered as autumn leaves before a gale.

_Take him. Make him obey. It is what you want. It is what you have always wanted._

A low stool tangled between Aragorn's legs, and he stumbled. Sitting heavily on the carpet, he buried his face in his hands. His chest heaved, but he made no sound.

_What you have always wanted._

He could remember. He had been so young and confused, frightened by the revelation of his true name and heritage, terrified by the weight of his destiny. He had sought out his friend, looking for some reassurance that those things did not truly matter, that he could still be the same Estel that he had always been.

Legolas had received him calmly, had gone with him on his mad, foolish quest to prove himself in the south of Mirkwood. And one night they had taken shelter together from a storm.

"King Elessar?"

Aragorn looked up. A guard stood the doorway, gazing at him with concern. "Lord Legolas is here. You wished to see him?"

"Yes." Aragorn rose, pushing his hair out of his face. "Show him in."

Legolas entered, allowing the tent flap to close behind him. He had discarded his quiver and knives, but he still wore his vambraces and riding leathers. They had ridden more than forty miles this day, but Legolas looked as fresh and composed as when they'd first set out that morning. _I'll bet he isn't even sore,_ Aragorn thought.

And indeed the Elf moved with his usual grace across the threshold. Legolas inclined his head. "You wanted something, Aragorn?"

Aragorn felt a flare of irritation at this casual greeting. He might not command Legolas directly, but he was still the liege lord of Ithilien. Did that not warrant some respect? But he pushed aside the impulse to snap in response and motioned the Elf toward a chair. "Yes. Join me, would you?"

Legolas followed him across the tent. He waited until Aragorn had seated himself before dropping into the indicated chair. Aragorn adjusted his position, wincing, and looked up to see Legolas grinning at him. He scowled. "What?"

"You bring it on yourself, Estel," Legolas said. He leaned back, stretching his legs before him. "You insist on riding like Men, despite your upbringing. And what is the result? You lose half of your ability to communicate with the horse, and your backside is bruised from knees to elbows."

"I don't believe that my elbows have anything to do with it," Aragorn said dryly. The knot in his chest seemed to loosen. He felt calmer, the doubt retreating before Legolas' gentle teasing. Even the need to use the palantír had lessened.

"Besides, the Elves in Imladris use riding tack on occasion."

"Oh, _Noldor_." Legolas waived a hand in dismissal.

Aragorn snorted. "For a Sinda, you can be shockingly prejudiced, mellon nîn."1

Legolas smiled. "As for that, I would invite you to discuss it with my father sometime. What is troubling you, Estel?"

Aragorn stopped, his hand frozen halfway to the wine flask. He studied Legolas. "Do I seem troubled to you?"

For some reason this question seemed to strike Legolas as amusing. His lips quirked and he looked away sharply. It was a moment before he spoke.

"I would say that you are no more troubled than usual of late. I asked only because you requested my presence, and I wondered if there was some cause."

Aragorn frowned. "Must I then give reason for seeking a friend's company? Will _you _cast judgment on me, Legolas?"

"No." Legolas sighed. "I did not mean it so." Rising in a swift motion, he took the wine flask and poured two goblets of red liquid. "Forgive me, mellon nîn," he said, handing one cup to Aragorn. "I would offer my aid, if I can help you."

Aragorn hesitated, looking at the goblet in his hand. _He will betray you_ . . . he pushed the thought aside and drank. The wine was warm from the day's travel, and beneath its sweetness there was the familiar musty taste of the leather flask. But though his stomach clenched in wary anticipation, there was no hint of poison.

_Of course not,_ he thought, lowering the cup. _I was watching, and there are the guards outside. He had no time._ And then, _Elbereth, what am I _thinking? _He is my friend!_

He looked at Legolas, who grimaced and set his own cup aside unfinished. "Remind me to have a new wineskin made for you, Aragorn. I think that this one has reached the end of its service."

A drop of wine remained at the corner of Legolas' mouth. Aragorn stared at it. The droplet shone in the light of the candles, red as blood against the Elf's pale skin. Legolas looked at him questioningly, and then his shell-pink lips parted, and there was a flash of white teeth and a coral tongue licked out and caught the drop.

Aragorn looked away, trembling.

"Estel?" Legolas' voice was tinged with concern.

Aragorn swallowed. "Do you remember," he began, and stopped.

"Remember what?" Legolas leaned forward. "Estel?"

"That night in Mirkwood," Aragorn managed. "There was a storm . . ."

Legolas raised his eyebrows. "I have seen many storms in Eryn Galen, Aragorn. Some half-dozen of them, as I recall, were spent watching you shiver under what the Rangers laughingly call a 'shelter'. . ."

"No, I –" Aragorn broke off in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair and stared down at the worn leather of his boots. "Forget it."

There was a pause. Then Legolas spoke. "The first time was in an old wolf's den. We had ventured south beyond range of even the farthest patrols…"

"Then you do remember," Aragorn said. He closed his eyes. "I put you in danger."

"You were young," Legolas said. "As was I. But we were neither of us unused to danger, and I certainly did not go blindly toward Dol Guldur. I have told you before that it was no fault of yours."

"No fault . . ." Aragorn raised his head. "Legolas, what _happened _that night?"

Legolas looked at him in surprise. "Do not tell me that the famed Númenorean memory fails you now?" Then seeing Aragorn's expression he sobered. "We talked. For most of the night, as I recall. You had just discovered your heritage, and we discussed your future, and Arwen –"

"_Arwen,_" Aragorn breathed.

All during the long journey to Mirkwood he had tried to forget her. She was as far beyond his reach as the stars – even her name told him as much. _Undómiel._ The Evenstar . . . and if he was to be a king then it was a fate that he had neither desired nor earned. What could he, a mortal, possibly offer her, fairest of the Elves?

When at last he had confessed his impossible love to Legolas, the Elf had been quite as disbelieving as he had feared. Legolas had not laughed – even then, when he seemed impossibly young and foolish, Legolas did not laugh at him. Rather he turned upon Aragorn a long look, and in the darkness Aragorn had blushed under the Elf's gaze.

"You were never one to give up easily," Legolas said.

Aragorn straightened, blinking away the shades of memory. He was in his tent. His wine goblet was still in his hand. Legolas sat a short distance away, watching him closely.

"I was wrong to try to dissuade you then," he continued. "Even when you were young you had wisdom, and you did not give your heart lightly. I should have respected that."

Aragorn shook his head. "No. You were right."

"_Many have claimed to love the daughter of Elrond," Legolas had said. "Do you think that you are any different from a hundred others?"_

Thinking back on it now, something about those words stayed with Aragorn. And he remembered the evening that Legolas had arrived in Minas Tirith. He felt again the knife-edged pain of betrayal, of finding Arwen wrapped in Legolas' arms. But he had forbidden the Elf from seeing her. And Legolas obeyed. Didn't he?

But on that night more than seventy years ago, there had been only anger. Whatever additional meaning Legolas' words might have held was lost in the white rush of Aragorn's fury, and he had answered with all the heat of new love and wounded pride.

"We fought," Aragorn murmured. "And you –"

"I was foolish," Legolas said. "I tell you again, Estel, it was no fault of yours."

"No . . ."

_It was past dawn when Legolas left their shelter. The night's storm had passed, and the weak sunlight was caught and reflected in the raindrops that gilded every withered leaf. Perhaps it was that which lessened the Elf's habitual caution, or perhaps in his own anger he did not pay heed to the danger. The twisted forest gave no warning._

_Orcs were not supposed to move by sunlight._

Aragorn frowned. Was it that simple? Had they simply talked, and argued, during that long night? He could remember the roil of his emotions, hot and close as the thunderous air. He loved Arwen. Even then he knew that he loved her. But to have her . . . that was beyond his imagining. He had been frustrated, and hurt, and angry – and Arwen could never be his.

But Legolas could.

Had he imagined it? Legolas made no mention of it. Even now his clear eyes met Aragorn's fearlessly, and there was no sign there of the hurt that Aragorn envisioned, the betrayal that had haunted his dreams of late.

_What you have always wanted._

He could feel the Elf's tunic beneath his hands, leather crushed in his grip. He could feel the strength of him, captive but unyielding, the heat of his futile struggle. He could smell his scent like summer rain, could see the pale glow of his skin beneath the livid bruises. He could taste the blood of their kiss hot and bitter on his tongue.

Was that all a dream? It seemed so real – but Legolas' version of the tale recalled what happened next. Legolas strode out into their small clearing, and froze. Aragorn, crawling out of the shelter after him, had seen him clearly. Legolas whirled back to face him, and Aragorn saw as if every movement were slowed to perfect clarity: Legolas' eyes wide, his mouth opening to call warning.

His unblemished mouth. His unmarked face.

And then the Orcs had struck. And by the time Aragorn had recovered from his shock and fought his way to Legolas' side, the Elf had not been unhurt any longer.

_Was that all?_ Or had he acted on that wild impulse, and tried to take what he could not have? The guilt, the shame of desire clouded his mind. Even if he had not acted on it, the longing remained. And it grew.

"Aragorn," Legolas touched his hand. Aragorn jerked back, nearly dropping his cup. The last dregs of wine splashed his fingers.

"What happened that night . . . neither of us was thinking clearly. We were in the Dark Lord's territory – under the Shadow of Dol Guldur. Do you think it a coincidence that those Orcs came upon our shelter, even though the storm had washed away all traces of our passage? No. Nor is it strange that we should fight over what seemed a mere dream at the time. Sauron's eye was upon us, from the moment we left my father's realm, I think. His malice influenced us."

Aragorn kept his eyes down, not daring to meet the Elf's gaze for fear that Legolas might somehow discern his thoughts. But this was a possibility that had not previously occurred to him. Hope flared.

"Then . . . what we did, or what we might have wanted to do . . . you think that He might have played a part in it?" Aragorn glanced up to see the Elf's reaction.

"I think it likely. There are many powers in this world, as Mithrandir said, for good or evil." Legolas' eyes flicked aside – to the saddlebag that held the palantír. Aragorn's breath caught.

"We were unprepared." Legolas finished.

But Aragorn was not listening. There was a roaring in his ears, and his mind was a red haze in which a single thought glowed like white flame. _He knows!_

He stood, throwing the wine goblet aside. Legolas rose almost as quickly, looking at him in surprise. For a heartbeat they stared at each other, and Aragorn's hand clenched white-knuckled on the hilt of his long knife.

_He knows! The palantír . . . he will betray you . . ._

_Aragorn stepped back and shook his head, trying to clear it._

"Aragorn?" Legolas sounded uncertain.

"Go," Aragorn said. His heart was pounding. His palms were slick with sweat, but the bone handle of the knife was warm and solid in his grip.

"Estel? What is it?" Legolas stepped close and laid one hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "_Im_ _sí le annad dulu._"2

"Get away!" Aragorn shouted. He jerked back, knocking Legolas' hand aside. "Leave me alone!"

Legolas stood quiet, watching him. Aragorn turned away. His muscles were knotted with tension, his skin felt hot and tight under the Elf's gaze.

"Let me be," he muttered. He could not meet Legolas' eyes. "I – I am tired. I need to rest."

"As you wish," Legolas said at last. "Good evening, my lord."

He bowed and slipped away. The candles did not flicker as he passed, and the tent flap closed behind him with hardly a breath of air.

Aragorn waited a moment longer, and then sagged into a chair. "Elendil," he whispered. "Help me."

He pressed his palms over his eyes. Nightmare memories danced through his mind, and what did it matter if they were not true?

_What you have always wanted . . ._

He loved Arwen. He was not worthy of her – he could never be worthy of her – but he loved her with all his heart. He would die to protect her. He would kill for her.

Legolas was his friend. All these years they had journeyed together, fought together, laughed together . . .

_He knows._

He had looked _straight at _the palantír. Aragorn had not told him of it. He had done nothing to indicate where it was. But Legolas knew.

"He must have sensed it somehow," Aragorn said aloud. "He . . . felt it, or . . ."

_Lies._ _He will betray you._

Aragorn pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes. His head ached with a dull, sick rhythm. "No."

_Already it has begun. See how he watches you, spies on you . . ._

"No!" Aragorn lowered his head, wrapping his hands over his ears. His voice was muffled. "He wouldn't."

_Can you be sure?_

Aragorn did not answer. He thought of Legolas' face, the hurt and confusion when Aragorn had pulled away . . . he had caused that. He could force the Elf to respond to him, to react to him. He held that power over him.

In the confusion of his memory he saw again the blood on Legolas' lips, the bruises on his skin. His breath had been fast, harsh. Aragorn remembered that. He had never heard the Elf breathe so before. He saw Legolas look up at him, his hair fallen in tangled disarray, his hands pressed tightly over his stomach.

In reality it had been the Orcs who had caused that hurt, and Legolas had slain many of them before Aragorn had even reached him. But Aragorn's mind dwelled on what happened after the battle. He remembered the pain, the pleading in Legolas' eyes, the panicked, shallow gasps as he crumpled to his knees.

He had not caused that, not then. But now . . . he did not want to hurt Legolas. Of course he did not. But perhaps there was another way to achieve the same effect.

And as he thought about that, something deep within Aragorn twisted, turned, and finally broke. Heat grew in his belly.

_There must be control._

"Yes," Aragorn said. "There will be."

* * *

1 mellon nîn: my friend

2 _Im_ _sí le annad dulu._ I'm here to help you.


	23. A Mortal Wound

**Warning:** This chapter contains scenes of physical violence with strong sexual overtones. It is also the most explicitly slashy chapter to date. If you read slash, this barely qualifies as a 1.5 on the Richter scale. If you hate slash, I'm not about to change your mind. All I can say is that this is NOT intended to be a true portrayal of Aragorn and Legolas' friendship. Were Aragorn in his right mind this would not happen.

Dedicated to the lovely and talented Ithilien, who asked long ago if there would be sea-longing in this story. Oh yes.

l

"But deep in the hearts of all my kindred lies the sea-longing,

which it is perilous to stir."

– Legolas, _The_ _Last Debate_

Chapter 22: A Mortal Wound

They were close now. Even in the midst of the thousands strong army Legolas could smell it: the tang of salt rising above the earthy scents of horses and leather and Men. The sea breeze ruffled the plumes of the Men's helmets and set the multitude of pennants and flags streaming behind them as they marched south. Without thinking Legolas turned his face into it, breathing deeply.

In his mind's eye he could see it: the endless reach of the glassy swells shining under the sun. The steady tramp of the army's march blurred and became the roar of the surf, pounding upon a rocky shore. He could taste the spray upon his lips, he could hear the siren call of the gulls overhead. Almost he could feel the rise of the ship's deck under his feet as it crested the waves, bringing him home . . .

"Lord Legolas!"

Legolas blinked. Someone had gripped his shoulder, shaking him. He turned his head slowly, struggling to focus. Éomer held his arm, looking at him with concern. The young King held his stallion's reins in his other hand, bringing the animal so close to Arod that Legolas' leg was pressed between the two horses. Arod's ears were back, and he sidestepped nervously as Éomer maneuvered him against a sheer rock wall at Legolas' right.

Legolas shook his head, pulling his arm free of Éomer's grasp. "What happened?"

"Your horse bolted," Éomer said. Behind him the army was marching through the narrow gorge, each rider with his eyes fixed straight in front of him. Legolas could see that the pass opened a few leagues ahead, and there were rolling hills of sand and dry beach grass beyond. His stomach tightened.

"He's always been a spirited one," Éomer was saying with a touch of pride. "His dam was the lead mare in Théoden King's southern herd. I'd wondered if it was fair, giving him to you, but you managed him so well, and even Gimli –"

"No," Legolas said. A gull wheeled over the sand, scarcely moving its wings as it rode the wind. He closed his eyes. "Arod did only as I signaled him to do."

"He broke rank and galloped across half a regiment!" Éomer said. "I know you don't like to bridle him, my lord, but in this case . . ."

Legolas' jaw tightened. It galled him to admit weakness, but the evidence could not be denied. "The fault was mine," he said shortly. "I ask pardon, Éomer King."

Signaling Arod with a subtle pressure of his knees, he backed the horse free of the restraining wall and circled around the young King. Éomer turned his own horse to ride at his side.

"I hardly think that you did it deliberately," Éomer said. He cast Legolas a shrewd look. "If it is not the horse then something else is troubling you."

Legolas did not answer. He dearly wished to avoid this conversation, for he knew that Éomer desired an explanation that he could not give.

The sea-longing was bound up in the mystery of Ilúvatar's Creation. It could be resisted, for a time, but it could not be denied. There was not an hour that he did not feel it: not an hour that he did not long to answer the Valar's call, and knew that he could not.

He was bound to Middle-earth, to his family and his duty, to the surviving Fellowship and to Aragorn. But the sea called him home. At times it seemed that his dual loves would split him in two, the pain threatening to engulf him. And now, when the sea was so close, and Aragorn seemed all but gone, it was harder than ever to resist. The longing was also a chord in the Song of the Ainur,1 and the Song was beautiful. He would not have forgone hearing it, even now.

How could he explain all of that to this brash young mortal, King of a nation that had been in existence scarcely longer than Legolas' own lifespan? Even Aragorn did not understand it, not entirely, and he was closer to Legolas than any other. Or he had been.

"This place has meaning for you, does it not?" Éomer said. "Dol Amroth?"

Arod snorted and tossed his head, responding to the tension that threaded Legolas' muscles. Legolas laid a hand on the horse's neck to calm him. He wished that he could take Arod into a gallop: run so hard and so fast that Éomer's questions would be left far behind along with the gulls and the sand and the smell of the sea.

But the press of the army all around them constrained him to a walk. And he had lapsed in his control once already, before they were even in sight of the sea. Were it not for Éomer there was no telling what he might have done. The King deserved some response.

"Why do you say that?" Legolas said at last. He kept his eyes down, avoiding Éomer's gaze. It was a terrible breach of courtesy, for an Elf, and he knew well what his father would have said of such behavior. But he did not care. No Elf would pry into the nature of the longing as it struck another, save for healing purposes. No Elf would need to ask. He felt himself alone amidst strangers who could not possibly understand, who would force him to detail his most intimate weakness for the pleasure of their curiosity.

"Lord Gimli mentioned it some time ago – before the Council meeting, I believe it was. He seemed concerned."

Legolas blinked. He remembered that conversation, of course. But Éomer had been recovering from the effects of a late night with Gimli at the time. He had not thought the King in any condition to pay heed to what was said around him. Evidently he had been mistaken. His respect for Éomer inched up a bit.

"The sea is . . . of interest to the Elves," Legolas said. "Some say that the music of the creation may be yet heard in the sound of the waves. At least it is a reminder to us of what lies beyond Middle-earth, and what peace we might find there."

Éomer looked thoughtful. "I've heard Imrahil say something similar on occasion. Can't say I feel it myself – give me an open plain and a horse to ride any day. I wouldn't say this to Lothíriel, but it seems to me that the ocean's mostly a lot of noise and spray."

Legolas smiled thinly. "Yes. It is that as well."

They rode on in silence for a while. Legolas concentrated on tangible things: the coarse feel of Arod's mane between his fingers, the weight of the quiver at his back, the heat and dust of the army all around them. It helped a little.

Then Éomer frowned. "Faramir once told me something else. He said that he'd had dreams of the sea – of a great wave that swallowed up the world. Have you heard of such a thing?"

"Yes," Legolas said, thinking that he'd often felt the sea had swallowed his world. "Boromir spoke of it. But the dream I think is shared by the descendents of Númenor. I have never had it."

"Númenor . . ." Éomer chewed at his lower lip. "Do you know if King Elessar has had this dream?"

Legolas felt a chill, as though a cloud had blocked the sun. "Why do you ask?"

Éomer sighed. "I don't know. I just thought . . . perhaps it might explain some things."

Legolas ducked his head to hide a smile. "I suspect that more than a dream would be required for that."

"I know." Éomer passed a hand over his eyes. "But this business with Faramir . . . Elessar would not even discuss the charges with me! Éowyn tells me that there is nothing in the palantír to make him act so strangely, but there must be something! He would not do these things alone."

Legolas gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to snap in response. **_Now_** _he thinks this! _"So others said at the Council meeting, Éomer King," he said. "But you trusted Elessar's judgment, even into war. What now has changed?"

Éomer snorted. "Do you think me a fool, Lord Legolas? Faramir is no more a traitor than I am, but Elessar will not see that. He has grown blind – as Théoden King was blinded by Wormtongue. Somewhere there is another worm that has done this to him, and I intend to find it."

"And if you do?" Legolas asked. "You have sworn an oath to him, and the army yet serves at his command."

"Oh, we have been attacked, and we are at war, make no mistake of that," Éomer said grimly. "Now we have only to find the enemy and draw him into the open. Look you when we come to Harad, Legolas, and see if you cannot put those Elf eyes to good use. Somewhere there is a coward who hides behind sorcery and shadows while his men go out to fight. Drag him into the light for me, and I will destroy him."

_If only it were that simple,_ Legolas thought, watching as Éomer spurred his horse to the front of the lines.

With every day they came closer to Harad and Aragorn's behavior grew more erratic. He ate little and slept less. Twice he had summoned Legolas in the middle of the night, only to dismiss him abruptly a few minutes later. As they traveled Legolas often rode at the King's side, to talk to him and try to bring him back to himself. But Aragorn watched him with eyes that glittered as if with fever, staring a little too long, lingering a little too close.

They were under attack. But the enemy had come through Aragorn's mind, and for all of Éomer's conviction Legolas did not believe that this was a war that could be won by any army. Aragorn was fighting for his very soul, for everything that made him the good and noble man that Legolas remembered. Victory would be more personal than Éomer conceived, and defeat more costly than anything imagined.

*~*~*

They reached Dol Amroth late that afternoon. Prince Imrahil rode out to meet them on a fine black charger, with a train of knights arrayed in rich cloaks silver and blue behind him. Pennants bearing the silver swan of Dol Amroth and the White Tree of Gondor snapped and rippled overhead, and the knights' mail shone like mithril in the sun.

Imrahil's captain of the guard blew a deep clear note upon a horn, and the answering calls from Gondor and Rohan's army sent a flock of seagulls screaming into the air. Legolas closed his eyes. His mouth was dry.

"Hail Elessar, King of Gondor and the Free Lands!" Imrahil called as the procession drew to a halt. "Hail Éomer, King of Rohan! And Legolas, Prince of Eryn Lasgalen and Lord of Ithilien!"

"Hail Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth!" Aragorn called back.

Legolas risked a glance through shuttered lashes. Sunlight seared his vision, reflecting from the white spires of Imrahil's palace high above the rocky cliffs ahead. Beyond them stretched the sea in swells of blue and grey flecked with foam.

With an effort Legolas wrenched his gaze away. His heart was pounding so that his whole body seemed to pulse with each beat, in rhythm with the crash of the waves. It took all his strength of will to focus on the conversation around him.

"You have journeyed swiftly for such a large company," Imrahil was saying. "We did not expect you for another day at least."

"We have need of haste," Aragorn said. "Are the provisions ready?"

"Aye, King Elessar," Imrahil said as they fell into a trot toward the palace. "We have rations sufficient for some weeks, and you shall have water in plenty if you follow the maps that I have prepared for you. The rains ended some weeks ago in Harad, but the waterholes should still be in good supply. And we have bedding for your men and stables for the horses."

"You have done well," Aragorn said. "Fortunate are we to have such a loyal vassal as Dol Amroth."

"I thank you, my lord," Imrahil replied, but a faint crease had drawn between his brows. Legolas frowned as well. There was something wrong in the way Aragorn had said that last.

"A proper bed will be most welcome," Éomer said, standing up in his stirrups to stretch. "We have ridden hard even for a soldier of Rohan. And the horses could use the rest."

"For this night only," Aragorn said. "We ride on at dawn."

"Elessar –" Éomer began, but Aragorn raised a hand.

"We ride at dawn. Leave here any horses who falter. We'll take fresh mounts from Dol Amroth's stables to replace them. I leave the arrangements to you, Éomer King."

"As you wish, King Elessar," Éomer said, but his face was thunderous. Legolas thought that even the arrest of his sister's husband had not angered the young King so much as this slight to Rohan's horses.

They rode in tense silence for a time. Then as they approached the outlying villages around the palace Imrahil drew breath. "Then we shall ask you to enjoy what hospitality you can before you depart. Welcome, my lords, to Dol Amroth."

*~*~*

For all Imrahil's protestations that they had little time to prepare, the kitchen staff outdid themselves in the welcoming feast. The long tables in the palace's great hall were laden with platters of fresh fish, shrimp and crab in more varieties than Legolas had ever seen. There were baskets of warm rolls glazed with honey and candied nuts, and at every place was a bowl of new greens complete with the first small carrots of spring. In place of honor upon a separate table was a great tuna, five feet long, roasted whole and stuffed with wild rice and pine nuts.

Legolas looked at this bounty and thought, _two days._ Imrahil must have had that much notice at least to send out the deep sea fishing boats, for it was too much to hope that such a catch was routine fare in Dol Amroth. But Aragorn had not sent word of the army's departure from Minas Tirith. Fear of enemy spies plagued the King constantly, and it was with reluctance that he had sent even so much as a single runner ahead of the army. That runner had not arrived in Dol Amroth until yesterday evening. By that time, Legolas suspected, preparations had been well underway.

_Keen are the ears of Dol Amroth. _Legolas had some experience with espionage in his father's court, and even Thranduil would have found satisfaction in Imrahil's spy network. His heart beat a little faster at the thought. It seemed too much to hope that Imrahil might have found some clue as to the enemy they faced, but he could not help thinking . . . _perhaps _. . .

It was a slim chance, but he clung to it. The feast seemed interminable, full of lengthy toasts and speeches that Legolas scarcely heard. Aragorn too seemed distracted, leaning to one side in his chair, toying absently with his wine goblet. Every time that Legolas looked up it seemed that Aragorn's gaze was upon him, a cool, speculative look in his eyes.

It made Legolas nervous. He intended to be a support to Aragorn in this battle, but that did not mean that he would be made a pawn in whatever game the King now played. He remembered Aragorn's reaction a few days previously, when they had spoken of their visit to the south of Mirkwood so many years ago. Aragorn had been confused, angry, almost frightened. And Legolas did not know why.

He knew that Estel had been distressed by their argument, and the Orc attack that followed it. Aragorn always did tend to brood over events that could not be helped, and he had carried the guilt of that for a long time despite Legolas' assurances that it was not his fault. But why should that memory return to haunt him now? It was connected to the shadow over Aragorn's mind, Legolas was certain of it. Somehow Aragorn's memory was being affected, the events and guilt of long ago twisted and turned against him.

Legolas could see it happening, could see the darkness that now all but had him. The only way he knew to counter it was to stay with Aragorn, to remind him of the friendship that they had shared: love beyond reach or understanding of the power that now sought to control the King. But Legolas wished that he would not stare at him so.

He sat quietly, willing Aragorn to look away. After what seemed an eternity the meal finally ended. Aragorn rose and there was a general scraping of benches as the others did likewise. The King raised his goblet to the west.

"Let our enemies know this: we shall not rest until our lands are safe. We will hunt down those who oppose us, and we will root out treachery from our midst. May the Valar stand with those who now go forth to protect our homes and our people, and may they grant us swift victory, Men of the West!"

"Victory!" the company shouted, and drank.

Legolas raised his goblet with the rest, but did not drink. There was a sour taste in his mouth.

His ears caught Aragorn's next words, as the King leaned toward Imrahil. "I would use Dol Amroth's pigeons tonight. Word must be sent to Minas Tirith."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Imrahil answered. "Our resources are at your command."

"Good." Aragorn straightened. "Then I will bid you all good night," he said, looking around the table. His eyes lingered on Legolas. The Elf tensed, wondering if he would be summoned to follow the King. But Aragorn only inclined his head, and walked away.

After the King had gone Imrahil released a long breath, sinking down and resting his head in his hands. Legolas spoke softly, so that his words were masked by the sound of the servants clearing the tables. From the corner of his eye he saw Éomer lean close to listen. "What news?"

Imrahil did not look up. "The scouts at the eastern borders report no unusual activity. If there is war brewing, the Easterlings are not a part of it. Word from Umbar is confused. There was some rumor of activity, ships being seen along the coast. But I cannot confirm whether this was true, or if the Corsairs had anything to do with it. And from Harad there is nothing. My messages have been waylaid, or else the scouts are too far for word to reach me yet." He sighed. "I am sorry, my lords. I cannot confirm or deny the threat that King Elessar has seen."

Legolas breathed out slowly. A leaden weight seemed to creep into his chest. He had known it was a small chance, but still he had clung to the hope that Imrahil would name the enemy they faced, would give him a target to fight. And now that hope was gone, and he was left with nothing, no name or source for the shadow that was consuming Estel before his very eyes. It was almost more than he could bear.

"Can you not?" Éomer said. "You've had no word from Harad, correct? I say that someone is blocking those messages, or maybe has laid hold of your spies. That's confirmation enough for _me _that the Haradrim are behind this. Elessar is right. We'll go there, and we'll find the Man that's done this to him."

"Oh yes?" Imrahil said. "And it will be that simple, will it? Tell me, Éomer King, how many men will you slay before you find the right one? How many villages will you burn? How many children will you leave orphaned, how many wives widowed?"

"It won't be like that," Éomer snapped. "Elessar would not –"

"How can you say what Elessar will or will not do?" Imrahil spoke in a vicious whisper. His eyes blazed with rare fury. "How can you say _anything _after what he did to Faramir!"

There was a moment's shocked silence. Legolas closed his eyes. _Keen is Dol Amroth indeed_. Then Éomer spoke. "What do you know of the happenings in Minas Tirith, Prince Imrahil?"

Imrahil snorted. "You can hardly praise my resources in Umbar or Harad, Éomer King, and yet ask me to remain blind to events in my own country. I know a great deal, and there have been times past when Gondor was grateful for my knowledge."

Éomer's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps so. And perhaps King Elessar has reason to fear spies in Minas Tirith."

Legolas had had enough. "Ever does the enemy sow dissension in our ranks," he said. "And ever does it seem that Men are eager to help him. You will excuse me, my lords."

Giving a curt bow, he turned on his heel and left the hall. A room had been prepared for him, he knew, but he could not go there now. For days he had been fighting the sea's call, focusing by main strength of will on the immediate problems around him. Estel needed him.

But now Aragorn was elsewhere, and he was alone. It seemed that there was little he could do to help anyone this night. He did not know how to draw Aragorn back from the darkness that pulled at him. He could not even keep Imrahil and Éomer from succumbing to the tension and suspicion that swirled around them. And he was tired of fighting.

The palace doors swung open at his touch, the guards standing respectfully aside. The sea's roar was like a song of welcome, the salt spray cool against his skin. Legolas went to it, crossing the hewn stone of the palace grounds to the path that led down to the shore.

The harbor was bordered by a long spit of rock that stretched toward the west, serving as a breaker for the waves. Legolas followed the path out onto the quay, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon.

The setting sun lit the western sky in a blaze of crimson and saffron, a fiery backdrop against which the dark figures of the gulls wheeled and dived. The sea was calm, stretching in flat swells far beyond the breaking of the waves, out to the horizon where the sun's rays lit the turrets of cloud in all shades of red and purple and gold.

A whisper of doubt stirred in the back of Legolas' mind. He should not do this. There was danger here. But he could not bring himself to care. He was so tired of resisting, and now, when Estel seemed all but lost, what use was there in fighting any longer? The sea offered healing, the promise of rest and an end to the grief that filled his heart.

He turned his face toward the waves, letting the breeze blow back his hair. His eyes closed and his lips parted as he drank in the song of the sea.

*~*~*

Aragorn worked quickly. Now that he had determined a course of action, there was little point in delaying any longer. First he checked his room, inspecting the fireplace and behind the tapestries for any sign of hidden passageways or spy holes. The balcony was locked. The fastenings of every window were secured, their heavy drapes drawn to shroud the room in darkness. The guard at the door was trustworthy – he had served in the King's Guard since the end of the War of the Ring. Still Aragorn sent him away and waited while another guard, chosen at random, was brought in his place.

Finally, he lifted the leather saddlebag from the pile of gear and set it on the polished wood of the reading table. He could not quite repress a shudder as he drew aside the material to reveal the palantír. The stone was cold to his touch.

He looked long into it, despite the burning of fatigue behind his eyes and the tension that made his neck ache. First to the Haradic army – he did not even need to search for them now, so attuned was the seeing stone to his will. Then he turned to the fields of Dol Amroth, where Gondor and Rohan's army camped before the setting sun. And finally he looked to Minas Tirith, where Arwen sat upon the throne of Gondor with Éowyn at her side. Aragorn studied them for a long time.

At last he allowed the palantír to go dark, and sat with his hands pressed against his eyes until the tears retreated. Then he pulled a few sheets of parchment and a quill and inkwell toward him, and began to write.

It took time. By the time that the last message was complete and fastened to the carrier pigeon's leg the sun had set completely. When Aragorn carried the birds onto the balcony he looked up into a colorless sky in which the first stars were beginning to appear.

He threw the pigeons into the air, one after another, four in all. Two messages were of import, the others were duplicates for caution's sake. After the birds took flight he lingered for a time on the balcony, breathing the chill salt air. Eärendil was a bright spark low over the horizon. Aragorn gazed at the Mariner, and then his eyes lowered, and he saw a figure standing far out along the rocky quay, silhouetted against the sea. He stiffened.

The distant figure was standing quite still, apparently oblivious to the waves that washed up the rocks nearly to his feet or the spray that soaked his hair. Aragorn swore under his breath. _What is he doing!_

The palace guards all but leaped out of his way as he ran. Aragorn raced through the palace and out onto the beach, stumbling over the sharp stones. His heart was pounding, his breath tearing ragged in his chest.

He should have known this would happen! Hadn't he said that he would have control, that he would protect Legolas? And yet at the first opportunity the Elf had slipped away, and he had let him go. He _knew _what the sea meant to Legolas, he knew as well as any mortal could. He should have anticipated this: he should have commanded the Elf to stay with him. He should have kept him safe.

In his mind's eye he could see Legolas sinking, injured. He could hear his friend's labored breathing. He could feel the Elf's blood, hot and slick on his hands. Past and present blurred, and he could smell the salt air, and he could taste the metallic stench of the Orcs that lay dead around them.

_The sea-longing is a mortal wound._

He tripped and fell heavily on his hands and knees. The pitted rock cut his palms. His hair was hanging down into his face, dripping with sweat and the sea's spray.

He had ordered Legolas to live. He remembered that now. Barely twenty years of age, he had knelt there under the rotted trees of southern Mirkwood and pressed his hands to the gaping wound in his friend's stomach and he had begged, pleaded, and finally commanded the Elf to live.

For a moment he forgot the twisted desire that had recently tainted that memory. He remembered only his panic, his desperate knowledge that Legolas was going to die.

Aragorn pushed himself to his feet, blinking through the tears and ocean spray. He stumbled forward, buffeted by the wind that tore at his cloak and clothing. He could barely see Legolas now.

_And he had not dared to look at him then. But long, blood-slicked fingers had slid over his hands, archer's calluses pressed against Estel's still-soft skin. He looked up, wondering, into Legolas' eyes. The Elf's lips were flecked with blood, but he smiled. And he whispered, so faintly that Estel had to lean close to make out the words, "The hands of a King . . ."_

"Are the hands of a healer," Aragorn muttered. He forced himself onward, slipping over stone made treacherous by the spray. A wave crashed below and foamed up over the top of the rocks, soaking Aragorn's boots. But he did not stop.

_It was in that moment that he finally accepted his fate. He was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Elendil and Isildur. And he had the athelas leaves in his pack._

Aragorn reached the Elf. He grabbed Legolas' arm, his fingers digging into the drenched leather of his tunic, pulling him around to face him. Legolas' long hair slapped wetly against his hand. But the Elf's eyes were empty, fixed on something that Aragorn could not see.

_Legolas' eyes glazed as Aragorn fumbled in his pack. He had no hot water, and no time to build a fire. His mind was a whirl of terror – Legolas was dying! But he held the broad leaves flat in his hands, and blew on them as he had seen Elrond do. The leaves stuck to the blood and sweat on his palms. He crushed them between his fingers, the panic lifting a little as he smelled their fragrance._

Aragorn gripped Legolas' shoulders, shaking him. "Legolas!"

The Elf did not answer. His skin was cold to Aragorn's touch.

_Aragorn held the crushed leaves so that Legolas could breathe their scent. Then, not knowing what else to do, he pressed them to the gash in the Elf's abdomen. He could feel something hot slide against his palms, and the thought came to him that he was holding back Legolas' intestines. His stomach churned. But he did not move his hands._

Another wave crashed and foamed around their feet, and Aragorn realized that the tide was rising. They had little time.

He shook the Elf again, shouted at him. Fear was rapidly giving way to anger. Legolas knew better than to wander out like this. Was he trying to drown himself? And now the hateful, familiar voice curled in the back of his mind. _Is this control? He deliberately defies you!_

_Aragorn did not know how long he knelt there, his hands pressed against Legolas' stomach. He talked until his throat was dry, alternately praying to Elbereth and coaxing Legolas to speak to him, to promise him that he would live. The Elf's responses were weak, his eyes closed tight. But finally the blood that crept between Aragorn's fingers slowed to a trickle, and then it stopped._

_It was several more minutes before Aragorn dared to take his hands away. But the wound had clotted, whether from the power of the athelas, or Legolas' Elven healing abilities, or Aragorn's touch, or a combination of all three. Astonished, he looked at Legolas' face. The Elf was very pale, but his eyes shone as he met Aragorn's gaze. And he smiled._

"Legolas! I _order _you to wake up!" The wind caught and ripped away Aragorn's words. The Elf fell limply against him, his eyes half-closed. His lips were parted as he breathed in swift, shallow gasps.

Aragorn had been here before. He had held Legolas like this, had felt this same panic and impotent frustration. Any moment now Legolas would open his eyes. He would smile, and Aragorn would know that he had brought him back. Any moment now.

The wind whipped the spray into Aragorn's face, stinging his eyes. Still Legolas did not respond.

_He is willful. _Aragorn groaned. **_Not now_** – but the voice could not be denied. It slid into his thoughts like oil upon water, coloring and twisting them to match its own dark patterns.

_See how he defies you. Did he not know this would happen? Yet still he came, willfully._

Aragorn closed his eyes. His fingers clenched upon Legolas' shoulders. His breath was a low sob.

_Command him. You've done it before._

Aragorn shook his head. Tears stung his eyes. "Legolas," he whispered. "Legolas, _please._"

_You are his King. He needs you._

He pushed back the wet tendrils of his hair, half-supporting the Elf as the waves crashed below them. His fingers lingered just beneath Legolas' jaw, feeling the weak beat of his pulse. He touched Legolas' lips and looked wonderingly at the droplets that starred his dark eyelashes.

_He is yours._

"The hands of a King . . ." Aragorn murmured against the Elf's ear. His hand drew back and clenched into a fist. "You _will _answer me."

He punched Legolas in the jaw, rocking the Elf back on his feet. He saw Legolas' head snap up, his gaze focusing and narrowing upon Aragorn, fire kindled in his eyes.

Aragorn's heart leapt. Relief and joy flooded him as Legolas straightened, swaying as the wind lashed around them. But from its first kindling relief was turned to pride in his skill, joy taken in the power he held.

_Master him. Make him answer no call but yours._

In the howl of the sea wind Aragorn heard the words; in the sting of the spray he felt the desire. It twisted within him like a storm turned in upon itself, rising higher and higher, and he was swept up in it, lost in the rage of the wind and the sea.

_He obeys. He is yours. Do it. Do it now!_

He seized the Elf, crushing the slender body against his, his hands buried in Legolas' hair, and he brought their mouths together in a bruising kiss.

Aragorn tasted the salt of the sea spray on Legolas' lips, followed by a bright metallic heat as he bit the soft flesh. For a glorious moment he was lost in the taste and scent of the Elf, the feel of lean muscle held captive against his chest, the power as his fingers tightened in Legolas' hair.

Then the world exploded in a star of pain, and Aragorn staggered back, wheezing, his arms wrapped around his belly. Legolas' punch was straight to his solar plexus, and for a moment Aragorn could do nothing but fight for air. He squinted up through tear-filled eyes at the Elf who stood over him with fists clenched. There was blood on Legolas' lips.

Another wave washed over Legolas' feet and around Aragorn's knees as he doubled over on the rocks. Legolas looked around at the ocean behind him. Turning back, he glared at Aragorn, but caught him under the arm and lifted him to his feet. Aragorn was still struggling for breath, and it was all he could do to keep his feet as Legolas dragged him back to shore.

The Elf was clearly furious. He threw Aragorn down above the reach of the waves and shouted over the sea's roar. "What in Eru's name do you think you're doing?"

"Saving your life!" Aragorn shouted back. Despite the pain a strange euphoria filled him. He had forced Legolas to respond to him – even against the Elf's will, he had brought Legolas back. His command was stronger than the call of the sea! He _owned _Legolas.

"I have visited Dol Amroth before, Aragorn. I do not recall _that _ever being necessary." Legolas wiped a hand across his mouth and spat.

Aragorn struggled to his feet. "You were in no condition to decide anything. The sea is dangerous to you, Legolas, and until I give you leave to sail you must keep away from it."

Legolas stared at him. "Until you give me leave to sail? Who are _you _to command _me_ in aught?"

Aragorn held the Elf's gaze. He had never seen Legolas look so enraged, or so beautiful. "I am your liege lord, Legolas," he said. His heart was hammering and his throat was dry. "You swore allegiance to obey me."

Legolas gave him a cold look. "I did," he said. "But the Man to whom I swore it would never have asked it of me." He turned away.

"Wait!" Aragorn took a step, but pride would not let him chase after the Elf. "I did not give you leave to go! Legolas! I am your King!"

Legolas stopped, but did not turn. Aragorn could see the line of his jaw clench. In the faint light that surrounded the Elf Aragorn imagined that he could see the bruise already forming there.

Legolas drew a slow breath. "You are no King of mine," he said. "I followed you – but that was _my _choice. You are not worthy of it now."

He looked back, and Aragorn saw the sorrow in his eyes. For a moment he wished to erase that hurt – to wipe clean what had happened here and to go back, as children telling a story, and say it was all pretend, he did not mean it. But he remembered Legolas' fury, and the feel of him constrained and willful in Aragorn's arms, and his apology died unspoken.

Legolas bowed his head. "Tomorrow perhaps I will try again to reach you, Estel. I have not the stomach for it now."

He walked away.

* * *

1 Song of the Ainur: The song by which Ilúvatar created the world. _The Silmarillion._


	24. Before the Storm

"For one thing, tomorrow will be certain to bring worse than today, for many days to come."

– Gandalf, _Minas Tirith_

Chapter 23: Before the Storm

Legolas sat high upon the stone wall that girded Dol Amroth's palace. The night sky was clear, the stars hard and bright. The ocean stretched black before him, while behind him Aragorn's army filled the plain like a dark tide.

Legolas wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his cheek against them, watching the play of moonlight over the water. He had bathed and changed into dry clothes, and the night wind did not trouble him. But the sight of the sea still had the power to make him shiver.

He must be on guard. It had been foolish to allow the sea to ensnare him so easily, and he was determined that it would not happen again. Yet even so he could not look away.

Aragorn claimed to have saved him. But Legolas remembered the Man's fingers digging into his shoulders, and he remembered the pain that had broken across the sea's song. His jaw was still tender from Aragorn's blow. His eyes had cleared, and he had seen Aragorn there, and he had felt the world solid around him again.

What had followed had _nothing _to do with saving him.

Legolas tried not to think about it. But he could not erase the feel of Aragorn's hands pulling him close, Aragorn's body hard against his. He had scrubbed his skin raw but he still felt the abrasion of Aragorn's stubble against his face, Aragorn's mouth bruising his.

He fought down a swell of nausea. He had not been blind to change in Aragorn's behavior toward him these past weeks, but he had never thought it would come to this.

Aragorn was bonded! And in over seventy years of friendship he had never approached Legolas thus. Surely whatever power now controlled him could not force him to act against his nature. Surely it could not.

But Legolas could not answer that question. Everything that Aragorn was doing now was alien to the man that Legolas had called friend. Why should this be any different?

He knew something of the darker impulses that lurked in the hearts of Men. It was not spoken of openly, but no elleth would visit Laketown without a warrior to escort her. Men who had business in Thranduil's halls were given an honor guard as a matter of course. And Legolas himself had once shot a warrior in the course of battle rather than allow him to be dragged captive back to Dol Guldur.

He felt sick. He wanted to rage, to scream to the heavens: _Aragorn would not do this!_ But it was futile. Aragorn had done it. And if he did not recover soon, he would do worse. And now, for reasons that the Elf could not fathom, his target was Legolas himself.

He could leave. He could take Arod and ride back to Minas Tirith. Take Arwen far from Gondor and bring her to his father's halls where she would be safe from Elessar's reach.

He could leave tonight. He would be free of Aragorn's mad, twisted suspicions and accusations. He would escape the confrontation that awaited them on this path, the dark intentions building in Aragorn's eyes with every look, every question and every touch. He could be free of it all.

And he would lose Aragorn forever.

He could not do it. Though the choice lay before him as clearly as the twin oceans of sea and army, it was an illusion. Legolas could no more leave Aragorn now than he could stop the crying of the gulls.

He had sworn an oath to bring Estel back. He had promised Arwen that he would restore him to the Man they loved. Though Aragorn had turned against them, though his actions now were a betrayal of Arwen and everything that Legolas had believed his friend to be, he would not abandon that promise.

Legolas rose in a fluid motion to stand atop the wall, balancing easily on the narrow width of stone. The wind whipped back his cloak and sent his hair streaming behind him, but he did not flinch. He gazed across the sea, drinking in the moonlit swells, the salt smell of the air and the ceaseless thunder of the surf.

Then Legolas turned away and walked along the curve of the high wall into the palace. He did not look back.

*~*~*

Éowyn was cold. The marble walls and floor of Gondor's throne room seemed to leach the warmth from the pale sunshine that filtered through the high windows, and the great vaulted ceiling sucked away what little heat came from the scattered braziers. Before the court began a servant had brought hot stones from the kitchen fire to rest at the feet of Éowyn and Queen Undómiel, but even those were cooling now as the afternoon wore on.

Arwen seemed impervious to the chill. She sat straight and still upon the white throne, her royal cloak draped loosely over her gown, listening closely as each petitioner made his case. It was market day, when by tradition the common people were granted audience with Gondor's ruler, and Arwen had determined to maintain that custom despite the absence of Elessar and Faramir.

Surreptitiously Éowyn nudged aside the leather wrap of her stone and pressed the soles of her feet to it. She wished again for the warm furs and roaring fire of the Golden Hall in Meduseld. It had seemed so rough and crude to her in her youth, when she dreamed of the high palaces and great Kings of legend. Yet now she looked on the cold statues that lined the echoing hall and thought longingly of the close, smoky heat of Théoden King's court.

And it would be even colder in the dungeons. Éowyn resolved to take another set of quilts to Faramir that evening. He had jokingly complained that with all the blankets, cushions, heating bricks, candles, books and braziers she had brought there was little room left in the cell for him, but she did not care. She could not bear to think of him imprisoned there alone in the cold and dark.

That too was why she had forsaken the comfort of her own quarters to endure the tedium of court at Arwen's side. This was a day for clemency, and she was determined to raise the issue of Faramir's imprisonment again. In truth she knew that Arwen had no real power to change Elessar's decree in his absence, but she had to try.

"I trust that Your Majesty understands the hardship this creates," a richly clad merchant was now saying. "The cargo is precious, being brought on good faith all the way from Aglarond. I would beg you, Queen Undómiel, to consider the dangers of insulting our friends and trade partners."

"The Khazad understand the necessities of war," Arwen replied. "The gates of the city are shut on all days save for when the market is open, and they shall remain so until the army returns. The delay while the cargo is inspected is not great, and I do not think that your Dwarven partners will begrudge it of you. The judgment of the court stands."

The Man looked as if he wished to argue, but closed his mouth and bowed haughtily. "As you wish, my lady. You are wise as you are beautiful, and I thank you for your consideration in this matter."

The guards escorted him away. Arwen leaned forward and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Elbereth spare me the platitudes of self-important merchants," she muttered.

Éowyn smiled. Sitting up, Arwen caught her eye and smiled back. "The Dwarves could not care less if the gates are shut when they arrive," she said. "Legolas once told me that their word for 'imbecile' means 'one who leaves his mine shaft unguarded at night.' That merchant only wishes to be like a courtier and listen to himself talk."

Éowyn laughed. "I did not know that Lord Legolas was so versed in the Dwarven tongue."

"Only in the insults, I think," Arwen said. "He and Gimli –" she broke off.

Turning to follow her gaze, Éowyn saw a page approaching. He dropped to one knee a few paces from the throne. "A message from King Elessar, my lady."

"Thank you," Arwen said. Her face was as calm as ever, but Éowyn heard the tremor in her voice. "You may give it here."

A guard took the tiny scroll and passed it to the Queen. Éowyn saw the red wax seal, unmistakably Elessar's, which affixed the parchment. She politely averted her gaze as Arwen broke it open.

She looked quickly back, however, at the Queen's sharp intake of breath. Arwen's face was drained of color.

"What is it?" Éowyn asked in alarm. "Queen Undomiel? . . . Arwen?"

Arwen shook her head. "Get everybody out," she said. Her voice was faint. "Get them out."

Éowyn made to rise, but the awkward swell of her belly prevented her. She motioned to Greláf, a soldier of Rohan who stood like a great oak behind her chair. When the massive guard leaned down she said, "The court is adjourned for the day. Everyone is to be excused by order of the Queen."

It was remarkable how the packed crowd responded to Greláf's bellowed instructions. The great hall was empty within minutes.

When they were alone Arwen handed her the parchment. It was light and so small that it fit in the palm of her hand, crammed with Elessar's neatly slanted script. Éowyn read swiftly.

_My Queen,_

_I see that you and the Lady Éowyn rule well in my stead. The people follow you to their betterment and the greater good of Gondor, as I knew they would._

_I pray you will be cautious in these difficult times. There are those around you who would use the guise of friendship to poison your true heart with sweet words and ploys upon your natural mercy. I command you, do not listen!_

_Stand firm in performance of your lord's will and by the Valar's grace I shall return to you safe from the perils of war, together with the lords Éomer and Legolas._

_Your devoted lord and husband,_

_Elessar_

Éowyn looked up. "I don't see –" she began.

Arwen shook her head. "_He does,_" she hissed. "He has the palantír! Oh Elbereth, I should have anticipated this. I knew that something was wrong, I could feel it – he was watching us! Even now he watches us!"

Éowyn frowned. "Even if he does, what does it matter? The army is days from Minas Tirith now. He cannot hurt us any more." She ignored the qualm she still felt at speaking thus of the man she once had loved.

Arwen rose in a swift, angry motion. She paced in front of the throne, her arms wrapped tightly over her stomach. "Ask me to release Lord Faramir, Éowyn." Her voice was clipped. "I know that is what you planned to do. Indeed I wished it too, and I wondered . . . if he truly were gone . . ."

She whirled to face Éowyn. "Release Faramir from the dungeons! And see how long it takes before a message comes. 'Éomer King has been grievously wounded –'"

Éowyn felt the blood drain from her face. "You cannot mean that Elessar would –"

"I have the evidence here before me!" Arwen snatched the parchment from her hand. "Do you think that a single word of this was not chosen deliberately? He has said it himself! And he has Éomer, and Legolas –" her voice broke.

"They are capable warriors," Éowyn said. "Éomer could defend himself, if he had to."

Arwen pressed a hand against her mouth. "He could," she said. "But he would not expect an attack from the King! Aragorn – dear Eru, I cannot believe that I am saying this – Elessar would have the advantage of surprise. And Legolas . . . Legolas loves him too much. He would hesitate, and that would be enough."

Éowyn's heart was pounding. She pushed awkwardly to her feet. "Am I then to choose between my husband and my brother?" Her voice shook.

Arwen caught her hand. "No," she said. "No, Éowyn, listen to me. Faramir is safe. No harm can come to him until the King returns. And once Éomer and Legolas are free we will take Faramir out of the city. I swear to you, I will not let Elessar hurt him."

Éowyn returned her grasp. Arwen was still very pale, her fingers cold. But her shoulders were square and her jaw set with determination. On impulse Éowyn bent down to kiss her hands.

"Faramir feared that it would mean civil war," she said. "If Elessar –"

Arwen looked away. "Do not say it," she said. "I beg you, he is still my husband – do not say it."

Éowyn's throat tightened. But she obeyed, and instead drew Arwen into a hug, turning her body sideways to accommodate her swollen belly. Arwen fell against her, her thin shoulders trembling with repressed sobs. Her body pressed close against Éowyn's, and as Éowyn wrapped her arms around the Queen she felt something flutter against her side.

Éowyn pulled back, startled. Arwen looked at her in surprise, and then her eyes clouded as if in resignation. Éowyn swallowed. "May I?"

Arwen seemed to hesitate, but then she nodded. Éowyn rested her hand gently on the Queen's stomach. There was the swell of the belly, hidden by the loose folds of the Arwen's gown but distinct to the touch. Éowyn waited . . . _there._ There was a faint, feather light beat against her hand.

Éowyn smiled, lost for a moment in the warm rush of memory. She recalled the first time she had been awakened by the stirring in her womb, and how she had dragged Faramir from a sound sleep in her excitement. She had taken his hand and pressed it to her belly. Faramir had been half awake, his hair sleep-tousled and hanging over his face, but she had seen his eyes widen in wonder, and his delighted smile had matched her own.

Arwen's hand closed over hers. Éowyn looked up. "How long?" she asked.

"Four months," Arwen said.

Éowyn blinked. "Four? But –"

Arwen sighed. "It seems that I am still one of the Eldar in this matter at least. Elves carry their children for a full year before they are born. Our development is correspondingly slower than that of a mortal woman. It is . . . something for which I have had cause to be thankful."

There was no sorrow in her voice, only weary acceptance. But Éowyn found herself blinking back tears. Arwen could not possibly have told Elessar about his child. She had never experienced the shared joy of discovery as Éowyn and Faramir had. There had been no teasing discussions of names or gender, no quiet moments to sit together and wonder at the life that they had created. Arwen was alone, and Éowyn wondered if she had ever had the chance to rejoice in her child, or if it were only another burden she must bear in secret.

_This cannot go on,_ Éowyn thought. Elessar had now threatened the life of Rohan's King. He was clearly mad, and might well hurt Arwen and the child when he learned of the Queen's deception.

Éowyn hugged Arwen close. "We will get through this," she whispered. "I promise it will get better."

Arwen gave a watery laugh. She hugged Éowyn in return. "I cannot change what will happen when he returns. I pray that he will come back to himself, but . . ."

Éowyn closed her eyes. Much of her life had been spent in that sort of prayer, she thought. Hoping against hope that her uncle would be restored, that her brother and cousin would come back safely from the skirmishes with Mordor's raiding parties, that Grima Wormtongue would vanish back into the hole he had crawled from.

_No more._ She was finished with prayers to heedless gods. She had sworn an end to that life when she had ridden to battle at the Pelennor. It might mean civil war; it might mean the end of the friendship between Rohan and Gondor. She did not care. She would not let Elessar hurt them again.

*~*~*

The army left Dol Amroth the next morning. Éomer said nothing, but not a single one of Rohan's horses stayed behind. Their pace was by necessity slower to accommodate the mounts' weariness, but Aragorn chose not to press the Rohirric King on the matter.

Legolas rode at the King's side as always, though he avoided Aragorn's gaze. Other than that, however, he gave no indication of what had happened between them. Aragorn wondered if it had been a dream.

But his midsection was still tender from Legolas' punch, and in the bright sunshine he could clearly see the purplish bruise under the Elf's jaw. The sight stirred a strange mixture of emotions in him: regret, guilt, but also excitement and a sense of elation. He had pulled Legolas back from the sea's thrall. For a fleeting moment he had mastered the Elf, mentally and physically. His heart beat faster at the thought.

Their course south veered away from the bay into the desert hills. Aragorn intended to give Umbar a wide berth. He had not given much consideration to why this was, but from the beginning the army's route had been set so in his mind. On the rare occasion that he thought about it at all it seemed logical. The Haradrim were camped toward the east, nowhere near Umbar.

Legolas seemed more at ease, too, with each league that they traveled away from the ocean shore. The desert sands were hardly welcoming to a Wood-elf, but at least they did not torment him as the sea did.

Physically the Elf healed with his usual alacrity, and by the second day the bruise had vanished entirely. Legolas also seemed in better spirits, responding to Éomer's conversational sallies and taking his evening meal without protest at Aragorn's side.

Aragorn was pleased by the return of his friend's spirit, but something in Legolas' manner gave him pause. The Elf seemed determined to act as if nothing had changed between them, as if Aragorn were still his friend of old. He even called Aragorn by the old childhood name, Estel. When they were alone together he would speak in Sindarin, watching Aragorn's face as he did so. It made Aragorn uneasy.

These were small things, certainly, but they irritated Aragorn like a cloth chafed against his skin. His own body lacked Elven healing powers, and his ribs still hurt at the end of each day's ride. Did Legolas think that he could forget his transgression so easily? Would he then turn back the clock and erase all that Aragorn had accomplished, all that he had earned over the long years since he had left the name of Estel behind him? He was _Elessar_, and he had re-united the free lands from Arnor to Ithilien. Gondor was his. Ithilien was his. Could not Legolas acknowledge that?

_You are no King of mine._ He remembered the Elf's words, the cold contempt in Legolas' voice, and his hands tightened into fists, the leather straps of his reins digging into his palms.

That night he could not sleep, but sat and stared into the black emptiness of the palantír. His head ached. Beyond the rustle of the tent fabric he could hear the distant sounds of the army at rest: the soft crackle of the fires, the men's voices, the snort and stamp of the horses.

_You are no King of mine._

Had it all meant nothing, then? Was Legolas so faithless that he could dismiss a lifetime of friendship so easily? Or was it simply his stubborn pride that made him willful?

_It does not matter. He pledged himself to you. Remind him of his place._

"He belongs to me," Aragorn said aloud.

_Yes._

"Then I will make him obey."

_Yes. And if he does not listen?_

Aragorn lowered his head, pressing his fists against the sting of tears. Finally the burning sensation retreated and he straightened. His face looked back at him from the dark surface of the palantír: his reflection was pale and distorted by the glass, his eyes empty.

"Then I will break him."


	25. Part III: The Breaking

**Warning:** You all knew it was coming to this, right? I may have been overly cautious in the warnings for some previous chapters, but I mean every word of it for this one. This is an adult story, and while it stays within the limits of the R rating, it is a hard R. **This chapter contains scenes of male/male sexual violence and attempted rape. Please do not read if this offends you.** Actually I'd be concerned if it DIDN'T offend and disturb you to a certain degree, but be aware of your limits and please read with caution. Again, everything is ultimately about power.

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**Part III: The Breaking**

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"What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?"

– William Shakespeare, _Titus Andronicus_

Chapter 24: The Desert

The army journeyed south. Aragorn had determined that they should travel by day and rest at night. The nomadic tribes of Harad were by custom quiescent during the day, even in the spring when the sun had not yet reached her full killing strength. Aragorn knew that they could not avoid the Haradrim's scouts forever, but he wished to delay their discovery as long as possible. A moving army's torches could be seen a surprisingly long way at night.

The going was slow. The soil was a poor mixture of rock and sand that shifted treacherously beneath the feet of men and horses. The sparse grass and shrubs offered little chance for grazing. Here and there a stunted tree clung to the leeside of a hill, dry and twisted by the constant wind. The hills rolled in endless swells around them, their striated bands of red and gold mineral deposits giving a touch of beauty to the barren waste.

"Not very sustaining, is it," Éomer commented during a break on the second day. Legolas shook his head without looking up: he was picking a stone from Arod's foot. The wind had died down for the moment; most of the Men were taking the opportunity to eat their midday rations before the blowing sand forced them to cover their mouths and noses again.

Éomer's own face was reddened and liberally streaked with grime above the loose kerchief at his throat. He took a drink from his waterskin and made a face. "We'd best find that waterhole soon, Elessar. The horses won't take much more of this."

"We'll find it," Aragorn said. He was if anything more filthy than Éomer, but he seemed to take little notice of it. "We will be there this afternoon, if Imrahil's map is to be trusted."

Legolas wondered if he were the only one who heard the suspicion in that statement. "Imrahil has guided us well," he said. "I saw the trees around it when we crested the last hill. It is not seven leagues distant. And see – the horses smell the water."

Indeed the horses nearby had lifted their heads, their nostrils twitching as the wind came up again from the south.

"We ride on, then," Aragorn said. "Have care that the scouts go well ahead. The enemy will likely lay an ambush around the water."

But as the horns signaled the men to mount up again Aragorn lingered a moment by Legolas' side. There was a strange light in his eyes as he looked at the Elf, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. Legolas returned his gaze warily.

"Keen are the eyes of the Elves," Aragorn said. "I am glad you are with us, old friend."

Legolas dipped his head in acknowledgment. Then, taking advantage of the opportunity, he said, "It is nothing, Estel. I wish to help."

Aragorn's eyes darkened, and his brows drew together. "Yes," he said. "So you have said." He lifted a hand and lightly touched Legolas' cheek. "Will you serve me as well, old friend?" His fingers brushed Legolas' ear and combed through the smooth fall of his hair. "Will you do whatever I ask?"

Legolas tensed, ready to strike. But Aragorn stepped back, and after a last searching look he turned away. He swung into Hasufel's saddle and urged the horse forward at a trot, pulling his kerchief up over his nose as he did so. He did not look again at the Elf.

Legolas stood still and watched him go. His fists clenched in frustration. He did not know how long he stood heedless of the Men hurrying around him, but something bumped his shoulder and he turned to find Arod behind him. The horse whickered softly and nuzzled his tunic.

Releasing a long breath, Legolas wrapped his arms around Arod's neck and leaned for a moment into his solid warmth. He closed his eyes. "I'm not reaching him," he whispered. "I try and I try, but he sees only through the shadow now. I do not know if he even hears my words."

He breathed in the comforting smells of horse and sweat and dust. Arod snorted and bent his head over Legolas' shoulder, snuffling at the Elf's hair. "I do not know what more to do," Legolas admitted for the horse's ears alone. "I wish that Mithrandir were here."

But the wizard was gone, sailed over the sea with Frodo and the other Ring-bearers. There was no use in wishing things were otherwise.

Legolas straightened and took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "So we go on," he said. "I will not lose him. Not like this."

He leaped up onto Arod's back. The horse responded at once, cantering forward until they rode at Aragorn's side again. The army moved on.

*~*~*

By mid-afternoon all the horses had scented water, and their pace quickened accordingly. Aragorn held the army well back, however, until the scouts returned. Finally one of the Men, a grizzled veteran whose face above his kerchief was nearly black with dust, trotted into the camp and dismounted before his King.

"All clear, Your Majesty," he reported. "Ah've got the others stationed 'round the pond for a lookout, but there's been not man nor beast near for two days, judging by the tracks."

"Well done," Aragorn said. When the Man had been dismissed he turned to Éomer. "We'll take it by regiment. The foot soldiers first, then the cavalry. The men are to circle to the far side of the water before filling their bottles. I want to surround that lake and keep a sharp guard at all sides."

But the precautions proved needless. The oasis was peaceful, located in what would have been a river valley in the wet season. Now several weeks after the end of the rains it had shrunk to a shallow pond perhaps thirty feet across. Deep channels cut in the soft rock of the surrounding hillsides showed where the water had recently flowed. Quick growing grass gave a haze of green to the dun-coloured earth, and the horses fell to grazing as soon as their thirst was slaked.

The men were quick to pitch camp, Rohirrim and Gondorians joining together to stake the tents and care for the horses. Cooking fires soon sprang up around the hills, though they were careful not to touch the few trees that grew about the water. The more adventurous of them took the opportunity to bathe in the shallows while their suppers cooked.

Aragorn frowned when he saw this, and motioned a captain to come near. "Instruct those men not to foul the water," he ordered. "In the desert water is precious and solely for drinking. They can wet their kerchiefs and wipe their faces that way."

"Yes, sire." the man hurried away.

Aragorn resumed pacing in front of his tent, pausing to gaze now and then toward the southward hills. Legolas watched him quietly. Something was clearly troubling Aragorn despite the peacefulness of the scene around them.

The sun had set when Aragorn's cook signaled that the stew was ready. Legolas took two bowls over to the King. He handed one to Aragorn and sat down on a pile of horse blankets with the other. Aragorn accepted the bowl automatically, and once he had it he had little choice but to sit down and eat.

They ate in silence. Legolas had little appetite, but Aragorn scraped out his bowl quickly and set it aside. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the hills. He made no sign of taking out his pipe as he usually did after a meal.

Legolas gathered up their discarded bowls and returned them to where the cook's serving boy was scrubbing the dishes with sand. He was aware of Aragorn watching him as he did so. Returning to the Man, he sat down just out of arm's reach. For a moment he looked up, to where the stars were beginning to appear. Even with all that had happened, the stars remained unchanged. He took comfort in that.

"Is something troubling you, my lord?" Legolas kept his tone deferential. Aragorn seemed to respond better to this approach.

Aragorn did not answer for a moment, and then he nodded. "Look south. Tell me what you see."

Legolas studied the distant hills. His eyes narrowed, and then he rose to his feet. "It is difficult to say with certainty, but I think I see a trail of smoke, as from a camp fire. But the light is poor. It may be no more than a wisp of cloud."

"There are no clouds here," Aragorn muttered. He stood as well. "That is smoke from the enemy's camp. Their army waits just over those hills. They mean to attack tonight."

Legolas frowned. "Even if it is smoke from a fire, there is only one. At most it is a scout, Aragorn, and a clumsy one at that."

Aragorn shook his head. "Then we will ride him down when we destroy his master's army. Summon the men. We ride now!"

"Aragorn, wait!" Legolas caught his arm. "You do not know what is there. It could be nothing more than a herdsman with his flock."

"I know more than you think," Aragorn said. "Leave off, Legolas."

"At least send the scouts ahead first," Legolas persisted. "Aragorn, you cannot take the army blindly into the hills. You would be riding in the dark, and if there is an enemy there then he knows the terrain far better than you do. At best you would risk injury to the horses, at worst you would be falling into a trap. Send the scouts."

"There is no time!" Aragorn snapped. "Most of the scouts would have to be summoned from the hills, and by the time they reported back it would be too late. The Haradrim would be upon us."

"Then send me," Legolas said. "I can travel more quickly and silently than your men, and if there is a spy then I will capture him for you."

Aragorn stopped and stared at him for a long moment. His eyes glittered in the torchlight. Legolas stared back unflinching. Finally Aragorn dropped his gaze.

"Yes," he said. "You would like that, would you Legolas? A chance for you to prove your loyalty."

Legolas fought down the urge to snap in response. "I have already done that, my lord," he said. "I ask only that you trust me as you once did."

Aragorn moved toward him, but Legolas avoided his touch. "By your leave, my lord."

It took him only a few minutes to get Arod from where the commanders' horses had been cordoned. He checked the horse's hooves swiftly, fearing with each passing moment that Aragorn would change his mind and command the army to attack. Satisfied, Legolas swung onto Arod's back and urged him forward. The spirited horse answered readily, though he must have been tired after the long day's march.

Legolas was forced to slow as they left the light of the army's fires behind, but even so he moved more swiftly than a mortal could have done. His eyes were well adjusted to the stars and faint moonlight, and Arod trusted him completely. The horse followed his every touch, trotting easily over the night-dark terrain that appeared in clear shades of grey to Legolas' eyes.

They climbed away from the noise and smoke of the encampment, and Legolas breathed deeply of the clean night air. The sounds of life in the desert came clearly to his ears: the scritch of a rodent's claws in the sand, the call of a hunting bird, the shift and slide of a reptile's scales over sun-warmed rock. But these noises seemed strangely isolated without the continuous melody of a forest's song to support them.

It was too dark now to make out the smoke that he had seen earlier, but as they wound through the hills Legolas thought he spied the flicker of light in the distance. He slowed Arod to a walk, and then finally instructed the horse to wait and continued on foot. Silently he climbed the broken slope of the last hill, and looked down upon a sheltered valley below.

There was another waterhole here, somewhat smaller than the one around which Aragorn's army was camped. A herd of goats was bedded down some distance from its banks, watched over by a boy who sat with his head nodding above his knees. A cooking fire cast a cheery light over the scene. Perhaps twenty dusty tents were arranged in a rough circle on the plain. The inhabitants walked freely among them. They wore the long robes of the Haradrim, but since the wind had died down their faces were not veiled.

Legolas counted some fifty individuals, twenty of whom looked to be men of fighting age. The others ranged from black-haired children who were playing some sort of a game with pebbles and sticks up to an ancient grandmother who sat by the fire and gummed determinedly at a serving of roasted meat.

As Legolas watched a scruffy looking dog nosed across the clearing and lay down next to the old woman. She seemed to ignore it at first, and then as it inched forward she took something from her bowl and passed it surreptitiously down. The dog's tail fanned a wide swath in the sand as she stroked its ears.

Legolas slipped back to Arod as quietly as he had come. He rode slowly until he was certain that he was beyond range of the humans' hearing, and then urged the horse into a trot. He made no effort to conceal his approach to the army camp, but the sentries let him pass unchallenged. He gave Arod into the care of a Rohirric sergeant and crossed to where Aragorn's tent stood at the center of a small clearing amidst the encampment. The guards at the entrance bowed to him.

"Go in, my lord. They're expecting you." The taller of the two guards pulled aside the tent flap and Legolas entered.

The interior was brightly lit and warmed by several braziers scattered amid the rich furnishings. The tent was spacious but still it seemed uncomfortably close and hot after the crisp night air outside. The crowd did not help, either. Legolas blinked, trying to get his bearings. Every captain of Gondor seemed to be crammed in here along with many of Rohan as well. Aragorn sat in a chair at the far end of the tent with Éomer at his side.

He caught Legolas' eye and raised a hand. The company fell silent. "Back already, Lord Legolas. You have news?"

Legolas nodded. "I have, my lord."

Aragorn's eyes gleamed. "You found the enemy's camp. They are close. How many horses have they? How many spears?"

"None, my lord." There was an intake of breath from the crowd. Legolas ignored them, focusing his attention on Aragorn. The King frowned.

"What do you mean? Surely you did not lose your way?"

Legolas resisted the urge to glare in response to that. "No, King Elessar. I found the source of the smoke that you saw. It is a family group. Some twenty Men are camped by an oasis with their wives and children. There is no army."

Aragorn went very still. He held Legolas' gaze as he next spoke, his eyes cold. "I wish to speak with Prince Legolas alone. Leave us."

"Elessar?" Éomer said questioningly.

Aragorn whirled on him. "Leave us! All of you – go!"

A murmur rose from the assembled Men, and several of the Rohirrim cast Aragorn unfriendly looks. But at a gesture from Éomer they subsided. "As you wish, King Elessar," Éomer spoke calmly, though his eyes were hard. "We will continue our discussion tomorrow."

The Men filed out, some casting curious looks toward Legolas as they did so. Éomer paused by his side. "If you need anything . . ." he began.

Legolas glanced at him in surprise. Éomer's brown eyes were full of concern. Legolas felt a sudden rush of gratitude purely for the sight of a friendly face. He bowed. "Thank you, Éomer King. I will be fine."

Éomer clasped his shoulder briefly. "I'll be in my tent," he said, and with a last nod to Aragorn he stepped through the door and allowed the tent flap to fall closed behind him.

Legolas stood alone, facing Aragorn across a stretch of empty carpet. Aragorn was the first to break the silence. "Your weapons."

Legolas blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Aragorn's face was set in thin lines, his eyes unreadable. "It is customary to go unarmed in the presence of the King."

Legolas searched for some sign of jest in Aragorn's expression but found none. He sighed. Wordlessly he set his bow to the side of Aragorn's armory stand and laid his quiver and long knives on the carpet before it. He straightened and met Aragorn's gaze.

The King licked his lips. "All of it."

Legolas gritted his teeth, but obeyed. He slipped the dagger from his boot and laid it next to the quiver. His vambraces were next, with the throwing blades affixed to the inner curve of the leather. Finally he drew a small, six-pointed star from behind his belt buckle and tossed it on top of the pile.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "That's new."

"It was a gift from Gimli," Legolas said shortly.

Aragorn smiled. "I'm surprised that he did not make it an axe." When Legolas did not respond he rose from his chair and crossed to where a small table was laid with bread, cheese and a flask of wine. "You must be tired, Legolas. Come, join me."

Legolas followed warily. Aragorn's change in tone was too abrupt: his attempt at casualness rang false. This was another part of Elessar's game, and he did not trust it. He felt vulnerable, exposed without the familiar weight of the quiver at his back or the vambraces at his wrists. He stopped a few paces beyond the King's reach and waited to see what he would do next.

*~*~*

Aragorn was aware of Legolas' discomfort. Waves of tension positively radiated from the Elf. But Legolas did not protest. He stood quietly, watching Aragorn's every move, _waiting, _the whisper curled through Aragorn's mind, _for your command_. Aragorn's heart beat faster at the thought.

"The encampment you found," he said, schooling his voice to calm. "Where is it?"

"Past the southern hills, not three leagues distant," Legolas answered. "They are grazing goats in the valley there."

_Lies,_ purred the voice. _See how he lies to his King!_

Aragorn kept his back to Legolas. His hand clenched white-knuckled on the wine flask. "I know that the army is there, Legolas. I have seen it." And he thought, _Say you were mistaken. Please. Do not make me prove you false._

"I do not know what you have seen, Estel." Aragorn flinched at the old name, but Legolas continued. "Or where you have seen it. But I sense no danger here. If there is an enemy then he is far from this place."

Aragorn closed his eyes. He could see the moves laid out before him like pieces on a board: he knew what the Elf would say, and where it would lead them. Already his heart was pounding, his mouth dry with anticipation. But he had to play the game to the end. He had to give Legolas this last chance.

"Your senses mislead you, Legolas. Men do not foul the earth as Orcs do."

"And the desert is not a forest, Aragorn." Legolas' voice was clipped with wounded pride. "Tell me next that the sea is wet. My senses are as true as they have ever been. Wherever your phantom army is, it is not here!"

Aragorn felt a thrill of satisfaction. He could play Legolas now like a master at his instrument. He had only to press the keys to make the Elf respond. Legolas was angry now, but with a word Aragorn could change that to relief, gratitude, hurt, even joy. Legolas was attuned to Aragorn's every word: his look, his touch. This was true power.

"Perhaps you are right," he said, and hid a smile at Legolas' faint exhalation of relief. "The desert is vast, after all, and no doubt the hills look the same throughout. The Haradrim could be further south."

"It is possible," Legolas said. "I could lead another scouting party in the morning, Estel, and see what lies ahead. You might come with us, if you like."

As he spoke Aragorn palmed a small vial from the pouch at his waist and concealed it in his sleeve. The lip of the flask rattled against the goblets' rims as he poured two measures of wine. His hands were shaking.

It was inevitable, he knew. Looking back, he could see that all these months had been building to this moment. He should be angry at Legolas' deception, at his continued slights and insolence, but he felt only excitement and a vague regret that it had come to this. At last he would lay bare all the secrets that Legolas had concealed from him. At last he would master the Elf, and force him to acknowledge his mastery.

He turned and handed one goblet to Legolas. "I will think on it," he said.

Legolas took the cup. Aragorn tensed, but the Elf did not drink. He regarded Aragorn with a steady gaze. "I hope that you will, Estel. It would do you good to ride out and see the land for yourself."

Aragorn's mouth tightened. "I have seen it," he said. He took a drink from his cup.

"Through the palantír," Legolas said. Aragorn drew a sharp breath, but Legolas continued. "Aragorn, we are in Harad. You have the opportunity now to see with your own eyes. Can you not put that stone aside?"

Aragorn stared at him. "Put it aside? You would like that, would you Legolas? Tell me, what do you fear it might show me?"

Legolas sighed. "I fear nothing, Aragorn. I merely wish that you would seek some confirmation for the visions you have seen. You know the history of that palantír."

"Saruman is dead, Legolas," Aragorn snapped. "And Sauron is destroyed. Do you really think there is anyone left now who can control me?"

Legolas shook his head. "I do not know. But there is something very wrong here, Estel. I wish . . ." he trailed into silence.

"You wish what?" Aragorn's eyes narrowed.

Legolas looked away. "It is nothing. I merely remember the way you were before; when you did not have the cares you carry now. It was a foolish thought." He lifted his cup to his lips.

Aragorn caught his breath, but Legolas lowered his cup almost immediately, wrinkling his nose. "We really must get you a new wineskin, Aragorn. This one has spoilt your wine." He set the goblet aside.

Aragorn breathed out slowly, though his hands clenched into fists. Was Legolas deliberately tormenting him? A red fire was burning in his mind: snatches of words and phrases and half-remembered images rising above the confusion of his thoughts like broken pillars in a haze of heat. The black cloaked legions of the Haradic army that filled the palantír. Faramir kneeling with eyes closed in the Tower room. A drop of blood welling from Legolas' lip.

_You are no King of mine._

"I am the King of Gondor, Legolas. You would have me forget my duty to my people."

Legolas shook his head. "Of course I would not, Aragorn. I only ask that you look with your own eyes and see if this threat is real before you lead the attack."

Aragorn slammed his cup down on the side table so hard that wine sloshed over the rim. "I have seen them, Legolas! Harad is marching to attack Gondor, and you _dare _to stand here and question how I defend my country!"

Legolas stared at him, his eyes wide. "Estel, I did not –"

Aragorn growled. "My _name_ is _Elessar._"

Legolas gazed at him in silence. His eyes took on an abstract light, though he were looking through Aragorn to something that only he could see. In that moment he seemed untouchable, perfectly composed as he regarded Aragorn with gentle sorrow. He inclined his head.

"Elessar, then. You do not wish to discuss this rationally, so I will bid you good night. Perhaps in the morning you will be in a mood to listen." He turned away.

"No!" Aragorn caught his arm. "You do _not _have my leave to go." He could feel his control slipping away, the power he had held eroding like a castle made of sand. Legolas did this to him! He had everything in place, the army ready to strike at his command, but with a word Legolas could strip him back to the uncertain, frightened youth that he had once been.

His mind was filled with a buzzing fury, but he saw clearly now. The illusion of control was not enough. He would force Legolas to submit to him. He would _make _the Elf bow to him, or he would break him. It did not matter how.

He tightened his grip, enjoying the feel of hard muscle beneath Legolas' skin, the strength that was poised to pull away, but did not. Legolas was frowning, his composure disturbed if only for the moment.

"You will grant me the respect that I have earned, Legolas," Aragorn said. He saw the confusion in the Elf's eyes and his lips stretched in a tight, humorless smile. "You will greet me as your King."

A muscle flexed in Legolas' jaw. "Elessar, I have pledged to follow you as I would no other mortal. But you are not –"

"As you would your father, then!" Aragorn shouted. Legolas flinched. Aragorn took another step forward, closing the distance between them.

"Ithilien is subject to Gondor, Legolas. I _am _your King, and you will acknowledge me as such or so help me I will raze your settlement to the ground. Yes," he continued, encouraged by the flicker of uncertainty in Legolas' eyes. "Those lands belong to Gondor. Your people belong to _me_, Legolas. _You _belong to me."

Legolas stepped back, pulling his arm around and up in a swift motion that broke Aragorn's grip. "You are mad," he said. "Can you not hear what you are saying? This is madness!"

"Is it?" Aragorn said. "I am surrounded by traitors and conspirators, Legolas. I trusted you, and how have you repaid me? With lies. You have betrayed me, you have betrayed Gondor –"

"That's absurd!" Legolas cried. "I have tried to help you! I stayed with you –"

"A family of herdsmen, Legolas?" Aragorn snorted. "Did you _really _think I would believe such nonsense? You have so little respect for me that you do not even trouble to think of a plausible lie!"

Legolas' eyes flashed. "I have never lied to you, Aragorn," he said. Aragorn felt a thrill at the bridled heat of his gaze, the controlled fury in his voice. "Come with me and see for yourself. They are no threat to you."

"So that's your plan," Aragorn said. "You would get me alone into the hills, where the enemy waits in ambush . . ."

"Elbereth!" Legolas threw up his hands. "You impossible, stubborn, idiotic mortal _Man_. There is no enemy! There is no conspiracy! What must I do to convince you?"

Aragorn seized his wrist and pulled Legolas close. "Prove it to me," he said. "All your promises mean naught, Legolas, so long as you swear allegiance to another. You are _mine_, to protect and to do with as I will. Swear yourself to me, and I will listen to what you say."

There was a silence. Aragorn could hear the soft hiss of the braziers, the snap of the tent canvas overhead and the distant sounds of the camp outside. He could feel the heat of Legolas' body close to his. He could smell the dust on the Elf's clothing and the clean scent of his skin.

Legolas turned his head to look into Aragorn's eyes. Aragorn steeled himself to meet the Elf's gaze. He would master Legolas, if took every fiber of his strength.

"And the family?" Legolas' voice was soft.

Aragorn drew breath. "Show me that I can trust you," he said. "Give yourself to me and I will wait until daybreak."

He saw the understanding dawn in Legolas' eyes, growing anger and a hint of fear. Aragorn felt a spasm of desire, painful in its intensity. His heart was pounding, his palms slick with sweat and his stomach a tight coiled ball. He _needed _Legolas.

"And if I refuse?"

Aragorn's breath caught. "Then I will call the men to arms, and I will ride through these hills tonight and kill anyone and anything in my path. I will find the enemy and I will destroy them all."

Legolas swallowed. "They are innocent, Estel."

Aragorn tightened his grip on the Elf's wrist and was rewarded by a flicker of pain in Legolas' eyes.

"Elessar," Legolas corrected himself. Aragorn felt a thrill of pleasure at this submission. Heat pooled in his belly and tingled along his nerves. He held the grip a moment longer, until his fingers began to cramp, and then relaxed his hold.

"Swear to me, Legolas," he said.

Legolas looked at him searchingly. "All these years I have followed you," he said. "When you were a boy I befriended you; when you grew into a man I fought beside you. Can you not remember? All those years when even your own people looked at you with suspicion – I stayed by your side. I have saved your life, and been saved by you in return. Is that not enough? During your wanderings, when you despaired of ever claiming your inheritance or winning Arwen's hand, I had faith in you. Can you not trust me now?"

Aragorn hesitated. Legolas' words stirred memories of happier times, scenes of peace and laughter that he could yet see in his mind's eye, though they were blurred as if viewed through a grime-smeared glass. Some buried part of him still mourned for the simple friendship that had been, the pure strength of love untainted by desire or power.

But before he could crystallize this feeling into words it slipped away, and he felt again the serpentine coil of the need that had become a part of him. He remembered Legolas drenched in the ocean's spray, the feel and taste and strength of the Elf when Aragorn pulled him back. He thought of Gondor, and of Arwen.

When he spoke his voice scarcely sounded like his own. He was mouthing the words that came into his mind with practiced ease, though he no longer knew their source.

"It is not enough. There must be control."

Legolas held his gaze. There was no quarter in the Elf's eyes. He weighed his options with apparent calm, but Aragorn could feel the rapid beat of the pulse at his wrist. He matched Legolas' stare, reveling in the contest of wills, the final proof of his domination over all who would oppose him.

Finally Legolas looked away. "I have always been faithful to you, as my friend and as my brother. If you must now have me serve you as my King, then I will do that as well."

He started to step back, but Aragorn moved with him, keeping him close. "No," he said hoarsely. "Do it here."

Legolas' head snapped up, and fire flared in his eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment. Legolas opened his mouth as if to protest, but then subsided. Averting his gaze, he nodded. Slowly he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

A storm surge of power and sheer lust washed through Aragorn. He had done it! Legolas was his, just as Arwen and Gondor and the free peoples were his. Even Legolas had finally acknowledged his rightful place at his King's feet.

Releasing the Elf's wrist, Aragorn ran his fingers through Legolas' hair. "On your knees," he said. His throat was dry. "Oh Eru, Legolas, on your knees before me."

Legolas stiffened. He started to pull away, but Aragorn was ready for him. Seizing a handful of the Elf's hair he dragged Legolas back. "You swore yourself to me," he snarled. "You will serve me as I see fit."

"Like _this?_" Legolas cried. "_Daro!_ Aragorn, no!"1

Aragorn scarcely heard him. The pain and fury in Legolas' voice fanned the fire that ran through Aragorn's veins. He pulled the Elf close, pressing Legolas' face to the worn leather of his leggings. He could feel Legolas' hot, panicked breath against his groin, and he groaned aloud. With his free hand he stroked the long curve of Legolas' ear. He saw a shiver run through the Elf's body.

Then with a convulsive leap Legolas jerked free. He fell full-length upon the carpet, panting. As he started to rise Aragorn threw himself upon the Elf, crushing him back to earth. Aragorn pressed his knee to Legolas' back, holding him down while he fumbled for the vial in his pouch.

"Something is doing this to you," Legolas gasped. He tried to rise, and Aragorn had to use his full weight to force the Elf down again. They were both breathing hard.

"Aragorn, please! You would not do this. You would never do this!"

Aragorn tore a long scrap of cloth from the lining of his tunic. With trembling hands he thumbed the cork from the vial and emptied the remaining liquid onto the fabric. "I have to," he muttered. "I have to control – I have to keep you safe."

Legolas rolled violently to one side. Aragorn fell against the table with a splintering crash. Pain lanced through his side from his bruised ribs, but he levered himself up and seized Legolas around the knees. The Elf lashed out with a foot, but caught Aragorn only a glancing blow as he fell.

Legolas tucked his shoulder down as he hit the ground, rolling with the fall. As he came onto his back, preparatory to leaping to his feet, Aragorn caught him. He sprawled gracelessly on top of the Elf, forcing Legolas to still, and straddled the Elf's hips. Legolas twined his legs between Aragorn's, ready to throw him off, but Aragorn leaned down and clamped one large hand over Legolas' nose and mouth.

Legolas' eyes widened as he breathed in the fumes from the saturated cloth in Aragorn's hand. His right hand struck toward Aragorn's inner arm, but Aragorn was ready for that and caught his wrist with his free hand. It took all his strength to force Legolas' hand down to the carpet, despite the advantage of his greater weight and leverage.

Legolas fought wildly then, pinned though he was at wrist and head. He bucked hard beneath Aragorn, struggling to roll and throw the Man off. Aragorn rode him, panting, his blood thrumming in response to the Elf's challenge. He barely heeded the constant murmur of the voice that ran in counterpoint to Legolas' struggles. _He is yours. Take him, break him now. Do it. Do it now!_

Gradually Legolas' movements slowed. He shifted weakly beneath Aragorn. His free hand beat feebly against the King's arm and then fell to the ground. His eyes were rolled back so that only a crescent of white showed beneath the lids. Aragorn released Legolas' wrist and touched his fingers to the Elf's neck. Legolas' pulse was thready and weak.

Cautiously Aragorn removed the cloth from Legolas' nose and mouth. Legolas moaned softly and turned his head to one side. A shudder of reaction went through him as he breathed the relatively clean air of the tent. Aragorn sat up. Legolas was still making small, abortive attempts toward freedom, and Aragorn gasped as he felt the Elf move beneath him.

He pressed his weight down on Legolas, suppressing a groan as he ground against the Elf's hips. Legolas rolled his head from side to side, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. "No," he moaned, so faintly that Aragorn could scarcely hear him.

The weak protest sparked fire down Aragorn's nerves. He bent down and rubbed his cheek in the disheveled mass of Legolas' hair. "Yes," he breathed against the Elf's ear, not knowing if Legolas could understand him, and not caring. "I am your King, Legolas. I am your master, and you will remember that."

He bit Legolas' ear, eliciting a whimper of pain from the Elf. He moved down Legolas' throat, tasting the salt tang of his sweat, scraping his teeth lightly over the sensitive skin. He tore the collar of Legolas' tunic and ripped down his shirt, baring the Elf's chest. Aragorn buried his face in the juncture of Legolas' neck. He breathed deeply of the Elf's scent and then bit down.

Legolas cried out, his hands pressing feebly against Aragorn's chest. Aragorn sucked hard for a moment and pulled back to see the red mark on Legolas' skin. He would brand Legolas for all to see.

Aragorn moved down Legolas' body, tearing the Elf's tunic out of his way. He trailed small bites across the smooth muscle of Legolas' chest, lifting up each time to watch the bloom of red on the pale skin. The dark rose-tinged nipples received a harder tweak between thumb and forefinger, purely for the gasp of pain that this evoked.

Aragorn reached the fastening of Legolas' leggings. He sat up, tearing at the lacings. He loosened the ties enough to slip his hand under the fabric, forcing his way to the soft flesh within.

Legolas drew a sobbing breath. His eyes were tightly closed, but Aragorn saw the gleam of tears that trailed down his temples. His hands were clenched into fists, pulling at the thick carpet.

"Estel, please," he whispered. "Please. You're hurting me."

Aragorn stopped. He stared down at Legolas, and it was as if he were seeing two separate images superimposed upon each other. There was the Elf sprawled beneath him, his clothing ripped, his hair strewn in tangled disarray, all composure and maddening superiority forgotten. Faint, broken sobs and wordless pleas trickled from his lips. Heat flared through Aragorn in response, lust surging in his need to dominate, to humiliate, to control.

And there was a second image, seen through different eyes. Legolas, his friend, was in pain. He remembered another time when Legolas had lain injured in his arms, and he felt the echo of his panic that day, his desperate struggle to save his friend's life. He remembered how Legolas had submitted to his ministrations, though he was scarcely come of age. Legolas had trusted him far more than Estel had ever trusted himself. And now Aragorn had hurt him, had hurt him in a way that might never be healed.

Aragorn jerked back in horror. Bile rose in his throat. His muscles felt slack and weak. He tried to get up, but his legs would not support him. He crawled, trembling, away from Legolas. He pulled himself into a corner, his back against the frame of his camp bed.

"Elbereth," he said aloud. "Oh Elbereth, Legolas, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He hardly dared to look at the Elf. Legolas lay crumpled and limp upon the floor. His breath came in swift, shallow gasps, his eyes sealed shut. The fabric of his tunic and leggings gaped open to expose the bruises on his skin, mute evidence of Aragorn's violation.

Aragorn wanted to go to him, to cover him and to wipe away the damage he had done. But even as he looked upon Legolas he felt the slow pulse of arousal, and the poisoned whisper curled through his mind. _He must pay for his transgressions. See how he is open for you, he gives himself to you. He is yours. Take him . . ._

"No!" Aragorn shouted. Tears stung his eyes, and he wrenched his gaze away. He buried his face in his arms, pulling his legs up tight to his chest. "No more," he whimpered. "Please, no more."

Still he was hard and aching, and the shame of that smote him to the core. He shuddered in a paroxysm of lust and pain, excitement and sick fury at himself and all that he had done. He could hear Legolas' soft whimpers and he clamped his hands over his ears to shut them out.

_Break him . . ._

"He will die!" Aragorn cried. "Don't you understand? He'll die! I can't – I won't hurt him any more. Please, no more!"

There was a pause. The tent was quiet save for Legolas' muffled sobs and Aragorn's labored breathing. The voice was finally, blessedly silent.

Aragorn rested his forehead against his knees as he rocked slowly back and forth. His head throbbed in time with the waves of shame that washed through him. He was exhausted, sick beyond thought or reason but for the mantra that beat unendingly through his mind.

_What have I done? Dear Eru, what have I done?_

* * *

1 _Daro:_ Sindarin, stop.


	26. Wrecked

"The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned."

–W.B. Yeats, _The Second Coming_

Chapter 25: Wrecked

Captain Aelon of the King's Guard sat at his desk in the citadel and examined the message by the sunlight that filtered through his open window. There was no need to read it again – he had memorized the brief text – but he did so anyway. The handwriting was authentic and the signature was absolutely valid. Cross-hatchings filled the small remainder of space at the bottom of the page to prevent any possibility of additions or forgeries. The seal was unmistakably King Elessar's.

Finally Aelon pushed the small parchment away and sat back in his chair. He stared blankly out the window for a time. His office looked down onto a small courtyard on the south side of the citadel. In the corner a group of pigeons fluttered and pecked about the wire mesh of their hutch.

Aelon sighed. "This," he said aloud to no one in particular, "is going to be a tough one."

*~*~*

Legolas' head ached. The pain was his first sensation as he moved toward consciousness, and he very nearly stopped there. It was not the throb behind his temples that made him hesitate, but the sure knowledge that worse pain awaited him if he should awake fully. Dimly he sensed it, like a shadow cast upon the rippling surface of a pool. There was hurt waiting for him there: pain and betrayal and loss so great that he did not know if he could face it. It was so much easier to drift here, in the warm depths where nothing could reach him. It was so much easier to forget.

Yet he could not. There was something he must do. Something important . . . a sound filtered through the depths. Someone was calling his name. Urgency, fear in a voice where he had rarely heard it before. Aragorn? Aragorn . . . was hurt? No – he had fought. He had tried to . . . but there Legolas stopped. Something horrible waited down that path, and he would not think of it now.

Aragorn needed him. Estel . . . _If Aragorn goes to war, we will lose him forever._ The cold certainty filled him: Estel was dying. He was lost, and Legolas could not reach him. He strove toward the surface, the light and shade flickering just beyond his grasp. The shadow lengthened, blotting out the light, blotting out all hope. Pain grew, and horror loomed ahead, but he fought on in growing desperation. Estel needed him.

Legolas awoke. The pain broke through his head like a thunderclap, and he groaned. "Ohhh…"

Aragorn's voice stopped in mid-sentence. There was a brief silence, and then came the whisper. "Legolas?"

Legolas kept his eyes shut. He could feel the texture of the rug beneath him: rich wool over a hard surface. He could smell smoke and wood and leather, tinged with the fresh scent of athelas. Somewhere a flap had come loose and was rattling in the breeze.

Aragorn's voice came closer. "Legolas? Legolas, please wake up. Please?"

He sounded so young in that moment that Legolas could have smiled. But his lips were parched and seemed glued with a sticky film. His nose and throat were painfully dry and his tongue felt swollen and thick.

With an effort he managed to crack open his eyes. The blaze of light sent a fresh throb of pain through his head and he shut them again quickly. Blinking carefully, he managed to focus on the tent canvas overhead. Candlelight cast a warm glow over the interior cloth and gave a golden sheen to the furnishings within Legolas' view: the edge of a table, a chair leg and the iron stand of a brazier.

Slowly Legolas turned his head. Aragorn was watching him closely, kneeling a few feet away. The Man's brow was furrowed, but his eyes lit when Legolas met his gaze. "Thank Eru," he breathed. "Blessed Elbereth, Legolas, I thought . . ." but he did not say what he had thought, or feared.

Legolas struggled to lick his lips. "Estel . . ." his voice was barely audible.

The next moment Aragorn was beside him, lifting Legolas into a sitting position. He cradled the back of Legolas' neck and held a waterskin to his lips. "Here. Drink."

Something deep within Legolas cried warning, but he did not know why. The water was clean and cool. It flowed like a blessing over his cracked lips and down his burning throat. He drank eagerly, but after a moment Aragorn pulled the waterskin away. "You mustn't have too much, or you'll be sick. Here, I'll put it next to you. You can have some more in a few minutes."

Legolas fell limply back as Aragorn set the waterskin aside. For a long moment he allowed the Man to simply hold him. Aragorn hugged him, his head bowed close over Legolas'. His rough fingers twined through Legolas hair, and his breath was hot as he murmured against Legolas' ear, "Thank Eru. I thought I had lost you."

Aragorn had lost him? No – it was Estel who was lost. He had done something . . . something terrible, if only Legolas could remember . . .

Aragorn was holding him too tightly. Panic flared and ran down Legolas' nerves – this was wrong. Something was terribly wrong, and he had to get out. The smoke and the leather were too close, too hot – he couldn't breathe. Didn't Aragorn know that he was hurting him?

Legolas wrenched free of Aragorn's grasp, staggering to his feet. He swayed as the room spun sickeningly around him. With a moan he fell to his knees, bracing himself with his hands, his hair hanging over his face. Aragorn touched his shoulder and he scrambled away. He crawled blindly into a corner by the tent's entrance. A breeze worked through the fastenings and he turned his face toward it, breathing hard.

"Legolas?"

Legolas shook his head and then moaned again as a fresh wave of nausea swept over him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on making the room stop spinning.

"Legolas?" Aragorn sounded uncertain. "Are you ill? Can I help you?"

Legolas swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that stung his throat. "I am well, Aragorn. I only . . . need a moment."

Gradually the sickness passed. Legolas sat with his arms crossed over his stomach and allowed his head to roll back against the tent wall. His muscles felt weak and his skin was bathed in sweat.

"Here." A warm cloth touched his temple. Legolas took it, breathing in the scent of athelas that clung to the wet fabric. He wiped his face and pressed the cloth against his closed eyelids.

When he looked up Aragorn was watching him. The Man attempted a smile. "Feeling better?"

Legolas sighed. "Yes," he said, handing the cloth back to Aragorn. "I think, though, that I now have a reference for what mortals call a 'hangover.' The wine –" he stopped.

Aragorn had taken the cloth, and as he did so their fingers touched. Legolas stared at him. "The wine . . ." he said again slowly. "It wasn't the flask. You did something to it."

Aragorn looked uncomfortable. "Legolas," he began.

"And when I did not drink, you –" Legolas shuddered as the memories came flooding back. "Valar! Aragorn – you did this to me! You _hurt _me."

Legolas' hands flew to his throat, his chest, touching the rent fabric, feeling again the pawing, brutal hands on his skin. He gasped and pulled the torn material of his shirt close, his fingers deftly retying the tunic fastenings.

"Legolas, I didn't – I stopped." Aragorn said. He looked pleadingly at Legolas. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt you."

Legolas reached the opening of his leggings. He turned away, pulling the lacings closed. He remembered. Oh Elbereth – he remembered _everything._ His breath came fast and thin – he couldn't breathe. Aragorn was choking him. Aragorn was hurting him. He tried to fight, but his limbs were leaden and weak. The cloth, the burning, choking fumes that leeched away his strength; pleading, crying, begging – _Aragorn would not do this!_

Aragorn touched his shoulder and Legolas struck so fast that he sent the Man sprawling across the carpet.

"_Daro!_ Don't touch me!"

"Legolas, it wasn't me!" Aragorn sat up, clutching his jaw. "I swear to you, I would never hurt you."

"But you did!" Legolas shuddered. He knew now why he could not will the nausea away. Elven minds were so closely attuned to their bodies that they could consciously overcome mortal ailments such as injury or disease. But that strength was also their weakness, and it was not his body that had suffered most in Aragorn's assault.

Legolas was shaken to the foundations of his being. The sickness he felt now was the physical manifestation of the hurt done to his _faer_, his soul. He lowered his head, pulling his legs tightly to his chest.

"It wasn't me," Aragorn said again.

"There is no one else here, Aragorn." Legolas kept his head down to hide the tears that pressed hot behind his eyes. His voice was muffled. "The flask, the drug – you _planned_ this. You _enjoyed _it."

"Legolas, no . . ."

"Do not lie to me!" Legolas cried. "Valar, you owe me that much at least. Speak truthfully: how long did you desire this? All the years we have been friends . . . was it all a lie?"

"No! Eru, Legolas," Aragorn knelt at his side, his large hands enfolding Legolas', gently drawing them down. "Please," he said, his grey eyes searching Legolas', "please, you must believe me. You, Arwen, Gondor . . . I only wanted to keep you safe."

"Keep us safe." Legolas gave a hollow laugh. "Has it occurred to you that I led patrols in Mirkwood centuries before you could lift a sword? Do you realize that the Evenstar lived for millennia before you were born? And now – _this _is how you would protect us?"

"If I must." Aragorn's mouth set in a familiar line, but his eyes were very dark. "I would not wish it so, Legolas, but I must have control. I cannot . . . I love Arwen too much to risk . . ." he shook his head, and his calloused fingers brushed Legolas' cheek. "I love you both too much."

Legolas jerked away. "Is that what you call this? _Love?_" His heart was pounding so that his head throbbed with sick fury. "Tell me, when you return to Gondor, will you tell Arwen that you love her while you rape her? Is _that _what love means to Men?"

Aragorn's face darkened and his hand clenched into a fist. "You _dare_ to –"

Legolas dodged the strike and caught Aragorn's wrist, yanking the Man's arm around and behind his back in one swift motion. He shoved Aragorn down, driving his knee between his shoulderblades. Aragorn gave a muffled yelp, his face pressed against the carpet.

"Touch me again, Aragorn," Legolas hissed into his ear, hearing his own voice gone cold with promise, "and I will kill you."

He broke away, standing despite the rush of dizziness. Aragorn rolled over, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth.

"I knew it!" he gasped. "All those promises of friendship – tell me again that I must trust you, Legolas. Show me your devotion by attacking me!"

"_I _attacked _you?_" Legolas said. "You have the _gall_ –"

"I am your King!" Aragorn roared.

Someone coughed. Legolas turned. A guard stood in the tent entrance, looking worriedly from Aragorn to Legolas and back again. "My lords?" he said hesitantly. "Do you need assistance?"

Aragorn stood, pulling his tunic straight. "No, thank you, Trafmir. We are fine."

"Yes, Your Majesty." The guard swallowed, but did not move. He looked at Legolas. "Only we heard noises . . ."

Legolas flushed, acutely aware of his torn shirt, the frayed lacings of his tunic. How much had the Men outside heard? The drug had cast a merciful fog over his memory, but still he recalled with painful clarity his own pleading cries and Elessar's voice raised in triumph . . . his cheeks burned hot with shame.

"Your devotion to duty is admirable," Aragorn said. "But all is well. You may return to your post."

Still the guard hesitated, looking searchingly at Legolas. When the Elf did not speak he finally sagged in resignation. "Aye, Your Majesty." He bowed and withdrew. The candle flames streamed briefly as the tent flap fell closed again.

Aragorn sat down heavily in his chair. He buried his face in his hands. Legolas could hear the muttered voices of the guards outside, and then the muted tramp of footsteps receding over the sand.

"I'm sorry," Aragorn said at last. "I didn't mean that, Legolas. I didn't mean to . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

Legolas did not answer. If he stood very still, he found that the room did not spin quite so badly. Whether he could also restrain himself from knocking Aragorn unconscious remained to be seen.

Aragorn groaned, clutching at his head. "It's this . . . this _thing _in my mind. Even now I can hear it, telling me to make you listen, make you obey . . . I am the King, I _need _to . . . _Gondor _needs me to . . ."

"What?" Legolas asked. "You have the army. You have reached Harad. What more do you need?"

Aragorn groaned again. His hands bunched into fists, pulling at his hair. "I don't _know._ It tells me . . . impossible things. Horrible things. I don't want to listen . . ."

"Then do not." Legolas sighed, feeling a deep weariness wash over him. He was so tired, and his mind and body ached. He desperately wanted to be away from here: away from this tent, away from the choking heat and smells of leather and dust and the memories of what had happened here. Were it not for the lingering scent of athelas he could not have borne it at all.

"You are the King. You must master yourself before you can command anyone else." Trite words they had seemed when his father had first said them centuries ago, but they had struck a chord in Legolas even in the midst of adolescent rebellion, and had grown truer with the passing years. He wondered if Aragorn were able to hear them now.

"You don't understand!" Aragorn stood abruptly, twitching as a horse might to throw off a troublesome fly. "It gets inside my head, and it _pushes _and it _pushes_ and I don't know anymore what is my thoughts and what is that _thing_, and I try, I do try, but it's so hard, and I'm so tired . . . if I could only _think_ . . ."

"The palantír," Legolas said flatly. "Aragorn, you must get rid of it! Can you not see what it is doing to you?"

"No!" Aragorn whirled, his eyes glittering as though with fever. "It is _mine._ It came to me, and I alone can wield it! For Gondor's sake I have to . . . I must . . ."

"This is not about Gondor," Legolas said. "That thing has hold of you, and while you make excuses it tightens its grip. You have a _choice._" He took a step toward Aragorn, his voice softening. "Please. If there is any part of you left . . . if you were ever my friend, be rid of it. _Please._"

"I can't!" Aragorn snapped. "Don't you think that I would if I could? I hate it, I hate what it wants me to do, but I _can't._ Gondor is in danger – _Arwen _is in danger. I have to save her. Even if it kills me, I have to save her."

Legolas stood still for a long moment. "Then you have made your choice." He closed his eyes, swaying as the full import of it struck him. "I would have followed you," he said. "But if you will not fight . . . there is nothing more that I can do." He turned away.

"Wait!" Aragorn cried. He caught Legolas' arm. Legolas froze, ready to strike, but it was Estel's voice that called him back. Estel's clear grey eyes looked at him from a face lined with care and shadowed with fatigue.

"Wait," he said again. "Please, Legolas . . . I need you. It is . . . easier, when you are with me. Please, stay with me."

Legolas stared at him. His whole body shied in revulsion at the physical contact, but the pain in Aragorn's eyes was real. He was hurt and confused . . . but he was still there. The shadow had not won, not yet. And Estel needed Legolas.

But Elessar . . . Valar, how far would he go? How much could Legolas give? And when there was nothing left . . . how much more would Elessar take? Aragorn had not even _acknowledged_ the true horror of what he had done this night.

Legolas swallowed. "How shall I serve you, my lord?" he said. "Am I then to be a . . . a trophy for you to turn to, when you have need to prove your mastery? Will people marvel to see a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen made catamite to Elessar of Gondor? When you tire of the Evenstar's bed, shall I crawl to your feet? Is _that _what you desire?"

Aragorn hesitated. Legolas saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, heard the echo of twisted lust in the quickening of his breath. The next moment he blinked, shaking his head. "Legolas, no," he began, but it was too late.

Legolas stepped back, pulling his arm free. He was trembling. "I would not have believed it of you," he whispered. "Valar, Aragorn . . . I never would have believed it of you."

"Legolas, wait," Aragorn said. "I didn't mean to – Elbereth!" He shoved his hands through his hair in frustration. "It wasn't supposed to be this way! I had it planned so that it didn't have to be this way!"

"You had it planned," Legolas hunched his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest. "How, Aragorn? What else could you _possibly _have planned?"

"In Minas Tirith," Aragorn muttered. "There had to be control . . . leverage, you see? I had to do it. I had to protect them all."

A chill ran through Legolas. "Lothíriel," he whispered. "Dear Ilúvatar . . . Imrahil pledged you his support, Aragorn."

Aragorn shook his head. "It wasn't enough. Don't you understand? I had to make sure. Imrahil might aid us this time – but what of the next? What of the time after that? Gondor's enemies multiply, Legolas, like weeds. Cut one down, and another appears. I had to be _sure._"

"Éowyn," Legolas said. "Valar, Aragorn – she is with child!"

"I kept her safe!" Aragorn said. "I kept them all safe – and I will continue to do so, for as long as necessary. But _you_, Legolas . . . Eru, you are so blasted _stubborn._ If you would only _listen_ to me I wouldn't have to do this!"

"You mean if I would obey you," Legolas said. "I have seen how you would have me obey . . . Elbereth," he felt his skin go cold as the blood drained from his face. "_Gimli._ Aragorn, what have you done?"

"What I had to do," Aragorn said. "I've only ever done what I had to do, Legolas." He smiled sadly. "I never meant for it to come to this . . . but you see, old friend, you _will_ stay with me. For as long as necessary."

"Old friend," Legolas shuddered. "I do not know what friendship means to you anymore, Elessar, but it is not this. I . . . I would have given everything of myself to bring you back, but I will not watch you betray those who trusted you. I will not stand by while you hurt those who love you. And I will not play these games any longer."

He left. Elessar shouted at him to stop, _ordered _him to stay, but Legolas did not look back. The night air stabbed deep into his lungs, painfully cold after the suffocating heat of the tent. Legolas' head swam, but he kept his feet, striding quickly past the guards and onto the shifting desert sand.

"Prince Legolas!" Éomer was walking toward him, his breath trailing in white clouds behind him. "The men reported a disturbance in King Elessar's tent, but they did not know –" he broke off, his eyes widening. "Legolas, what happened? Are you all right?"

Legolas drew the tattered fabric of his collar closed over the bruises at his neck. "Aragorn has gone mad," he said. "There is no enemy here, Éomer, but he will not see that. I –" he hesitated. _I loved him._ Tears stung his eyes, and he forced them back. He could not think about it now. Later he would have the strength to sort through all the pain and confusion of this night. He could not bear to think about it now.

"I cannot stay here. There are . . . things to which I must attend. Please, will you keep watch on Elessar? Do not let him take the invasion further, whatever he tells you. Do not let him hurt anyone else."

Éomer stared. Then he nodded. "Yes. Yes, but – are you sure? Elessar . . ."

"You were right, Éomer King," Legolas said. He lifted his head and whistled. A piercing whinny drifted over the night air, followed by the thud of hooves. "A worm has invaded Elessar's mind, and he cannot defeat it. Stop it here, Éomer King. _Stop it here._"

"I will," Éomer said. "Eru, Legolas, I will!"

Arod galloped toward them, his hooves thundering over the sand. A length of rope trailed from his right forefoot where he had broken his hobbles. Legolas took two steps and leaped, swinging up onto the horse's back without breaking his stride.

"The army is in your command, Éomer. Stop it here!"

He drew Arod around, the horse's muscles bunching beneath him as he reared. The night wind whipped back Legolas' hair and tore at Arod's mane and tail. Arod plunged forward, and in a spray of sand they were gone.

*~*~*

Gimli was inspecting the city walls. He'd already checked every level of the city once before, and he'd sent stonemasons to correct the flaws that he'd found, and he'd sent other masons to check up on _them_, but he did not consider the job done until he'd approved it himself. He'd been very clear in his instructions, but the workers were after all only Men and could not be blamed for their inevitable shortcomings when it came to stonework.

Not one drain, he'd said. Not a culvert, not a pipe, not a hole, not a crack, not a line _anywhere_ in the base of _any _wall, no matter if it's on the first level or the seventh. No matter if it's the main sewer of the city – it gets routed underground for at least fifty yards beyond the city wall, and I want grill work in every five yards of those fifty, and solid iron at that, and _don't _you roll your eyes at me, Erlich Foundryman, I know the cost of good iron but _you _weren't there at Helm's Deep when the Morgoth-begotten Orcs blew the blasted wall to pieces, _now were you?_

He'd worked his way from the first up to the sixth level and had yet to find any flaws even to his exacting standards. Grudgingly he straightened up, chewing at his mustache as he massaged the small of his back. At this rate he'd have to tell the Men that they'd done a satisfactory job. Not exactly to Dwarf quality, mind, but . . . well, not very far from Dwarf quality either, if he was forced to admit it.

Not that he _wanted _there to be any mistakes, of course. He'd taken responsibility for the defense of the city. He was guarding the daughter's daughter of Lady Galadriel, and he could not think of a greater honor than that. But . . . it was easier when he had something to be upset about. When he could work himself into a proper rage and shout and stomp so that the sparks flew from his boots and the Men cowered a little around him . . . it helped to keep him from worrying quite so much about the danger that Legolas had undoubtedly landed himself in, and how the fool Elf could ever manage without him.

There was a tap on his shoulder. Gimli turned and found himself face to chest with a burly soldier dressed in the livery of the palace guard. He stepped back, taking in the five other guards who stood in a huddle behind the first one, hands gripping their sword hilts and helmets not quite hiding their nervous expressions.

"Lord Gimli?" the first guard said. He cleared his throat. "Sir, I must request that you accompany us."

"Really?" said Gimli. "And why is that?"

The Man shifted his weight. "Ah, by order of King Elessar, my lord, I am to take you into protective custody. Um, for your own safety, you understand."

"What now?" Gimli frowned. "Lad, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Er, yes sir. I believe so. Um, you'll have to give your axe to us, my lord. You're under arrest, you see."

"Ah ha, I _thought _so." Gimli grinned, feeling the vague worry that had haunted him all afternoon dissipate in a welcome rush of real, concrete anger. "_Good._"

*~*~*

The army's camp was miles behind Legolas now, the light of its fires swallowed in the desert. The sand stretched in empty waves around him, wind-sculpted dunes rising in black mounds under the hard starlight. There were no forests here, but the stars were clear and bright and close as they had never been even in Eryn Lasgalen.

The silvery light was enough for Arod to keep a steady trot as they moved west. Legolas set a course for the fastest road back to Minas Tirith, and that meant going to the coast, where perhaps he could find a ship back to Dol Amroth. The army might be several days' march from Umbar, but the distance could be covered in a night of hard riding by a single Elf. Or so he hoped. He had left with no pack or provisions for this journey, and if he and Arod did not find shelter by sunrise they would be in trouble.

But he would not think of that now. Now there was only the sand and the stars and the biting wind that swept back his hair and worked its way into the rents of his clothing. He would not think about that either.

Arod had regained his breath. Legolas pressed himself close to the horse's neck, urging him into a canter, then a gallop. They raced over the sand, and Legolas murmured in Arod's turned-back ear, telling him to go faster, faster, _faster_. There were no memories here. No choking heat or burning, poisoned fumes. Nothing touched his skin but the cold, clean wind, and his heart pounded with the rhythm of Arod's flying hooves.

His senses were given wholly to the speed and power of Arod's flight over the dunes, his mind focused so that he would not remember, would _not _re_mem_ber_, would not remember. _So that it was only distantly that he was aware of the fading of the stars, and felt the stirring of warmth at his back and knew that the sun was rising.

But far more strongly he felt the call, growing in strength as they drew near. He laughed aloud, heedless of the tears that streaked his cheeks. It was too distant to smell the salt or hear the gulls, but he knew. The sun eased its red bulk over the horizon, stretching his and Arod's shadows long before them, but it was too late. A few hours more and they would be at the sea.

Arod plowed up the long slope of another dune. They reached the crest and Legolas pulled up so sharply that Arod's hind legs nearly overran his fore. Legolas kept his seat, drawing the horse around in a tight circle, and stared open-mouthed into the valley below.

The sand flattened here into a long, rolling plain that stretched toward the distant glitter of the ocean. But this one time Legolas had no eyes for the sea. The plain was filled with a tide of black. Dark tents stretched on in row upon endless row, and over them ragged pennants and flags fluttered from a forest of glittering pikes. Men were everywhere, faces veiled against the wind, armor glinting beneath their long robes.

It was the enemy's army. It was here, and all too real, but not in Harad. Not in Harad at all.

A horn blew, and one of the figures below shouted, pointing to where Legolas and Arod were silhouetted against the rising sun. Several horsemen broke away from the main camp and galloped up the slope toward him, splitting and circling wide to come at him from two sides. And now for the first time Legolas heard the hoof beats behind him, and turned to see the scouts closing on them from the north and southeast.

Arod sidestepped nervously as they approached and Legolas reached for his bow. It was not there. It was piled with his quiver and the rest of his weapons in Aragorn's tent.

Legolas swore under his breath. He could not possibly outrace the archers' arrows. Here there was no shelter to which he could run, no trees that he could climb. No hope of rescue. He watched the Men come and readied himself for what he knew would be the last fight of his life.


	27. Into the Fire

"Neither you nor I knew there was so much evil in the world."

– Rudyard Kipling

Chapter 26: Into the Fire

Éomer approached King Elessar's tent cautiously. The men had reported sounds of a struggle, though they had hesitated to intervene. Éomer did not blame them. He knew well the difficulties inherent in confronting one's King, much less one's King in a state of rage. But the sight of Legolas emerging bruised and disheveled from Elessar's tent had shaken Éomer.

He knew the Elf to be a warrior of considerable skill. What then could Elessar have done to hurt him so? For Éomer had no doubt that Legolas was hurt. Perhaps he should have detained the Prince and sent him to the healer's tent . . . but Éomer dismissed that thought out of hand. It might be possible to restrain an Elf once he had determined to leave, but Éomer knew that he was not the man to attempt it.

Which begged the question, having seen Legolas' distress: in what condition was King Elessar?

Éomer squared his shoulders and drew the tent flap aside. He was braced for any confrontation, he thought, but the sight within stopped him in his tracks.

The King's tent was in chaos. Broken shards of wood from what looked like a table littered the floor and a spreading pool of wine stained the rug a deep crimson. Two of the hanging tapestries were pulled down and crumpled on the floor, their wool scorched and streaked with wax from a fallen candelabrum. Aragorn was seated on a low stool in the midst of the wreckage, his head bowed between his knees and his hands clasped at the back of his neck. His lank hair hung over his face.

"King Elessar?" Éomer started toward him. As he did so his foot kicked a small glass bottle, sending it rolling across the floor. Aragorn did not look up.

"My lord? Are you all right?" When the King did not respond Éomer touched his shoulder. "Aragorn?"

"No more," Aragorn whispered, so quietly that Éomer had to bend down to hear him. "Please. He'll die. No more."

Éomer frowned. "Who will die, my lord? There is no one here."

Aragorn shuddered. When he spoke again his voice was different: deeper, harsher than Éomer had ever heard it. The faint Sindarin accent was gone, replaced by a gravel undertone that Éomer did not recognize. "Lies, lies . . . he lies. Go after him. He cannot get away!"

Éomer shivered despite the heat of the braziers. He knew himself to be a strong leader and a good King, inspiring loyalty in his men and devotion from his horses. But this was beyond his ken. Aragorn's words smacked of madness, or sorcery.

"Lord Legolas is gone, Aragorn," he tried. "Do you wish to send riders after him?"

There was a pause. Éomer held his breath. He had no intention of doing any such thing, of course, but if there was need to prevent Elessar from doing so then he'd best know it now. Another fine wired shudder ran through the strong frame beneath his hand. Then slowly Aragorn lifted his head.

His lips were dry and chapped, his grey eyes empty, gazing without comprehension straight ahead. With almost visible effort Aragorn focused and met Éomer's gaze. "No," he said, and his voice though hoarse sounded his own again. "No, I . . . let him go. I let him go," he repeated more strongly.

A moment later his eyes slid back out of focus, the pupils widening and darkening the silvered iris. "Coward! Shall he defy his King with impunity? He is _mine!_"

Éomer wished fervently that the old wizard Gandalf were here. Perhaps the Stormcrow could make sense of the hurricane brewing in Aragorn's mind. He tried a different tactic.

"It is very late, my lord. Perhaps you should take some rest."

"Rest?" Aragorn blinked and looked around. "What rest shall I find, Éomer King?" He laughed, once, a harsh bark in his throat. Éomer winced.

"No, no, there is no rest. No sleep for me now. I know now, you see? In dreams. That's when he comes. That's when he finds you, and makes you do these things . . . no more dreams."

Éomer looked around helplessly. _What now?_ How would Gandalf answer this? He wished that Éowyn were here, or Lothíriel, or even Gimli. Anyone would be better at this than him.

Aragorn hunched down, burying his face in his hands. He rocked gently back and forth, muttering beneath his breath. "No more. No more. Please. I won't hurt him any more."

A chill wind seemed to blow through Éomer. Legolas' bow and quiver were piled next to the tent door. He stared at them for a long moment, and then looked down at the trembling wreck of the man he had once admired. He swallowed.

"No, my lord," he said. "You won't."

*~*~*

The guards snapped to attention as Éomer ducked outside. He gestured them close. "If King Elessar leaves his tent tonight I want to know it. Don't try to stop him, but follow him, and send a runner to find me. Do you understand?"

The men exchanged a glance, but did not protest. One of them saluted. "Yes, Éomer King."

"Good." Éomer strode to his own tent, his cloak billowing in the desert breeze. "Frelwine! Summon the scouts of the Mark. Get any of Gondor who are still awake, too. I want them here in ten minutes."

His aide jumped to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Your Majesty?"

"Go!" Éomer slid behind his desk and pulled a map toward him, angling it toward the banked glow of a brazier. "We'll scour every hill in the desert if we have to. I'm going to know exactly who and where our enemy is before this army stirs another step."

*~*~*

The sun had scarcely crested the eastern hills, but already the air was scorching hot. The west wind carried a hint of salt from the distant bay, but much more than that it carried the dust kicked up by the army's horses. Leading his mare by the reins with one hand, Amdir pulled a corner of his veil over his nose and mouth with the other.

The Captain said they would march on Umbar soon, and for Amdir it could not come soon enough. He was sick of the desert, sick of the stinging wind and the sand that crept into every corner of the tents and bedding and even found its way into the food. Six months they had been in this Eru-forsaken place, and always it had been 'just a little longer' until they could leave. Amdir had stopped believing the commanders' promises long ago.

Still he felt a small flare of hope as he wound his way between the tents, the rest of his men following behind. Perhaps this time would be different. They had captured an Elf! Surely that was a rich enough prize for the Captain. Perhaps it would satisfy whatever need had led them to this barren edge between Umbar and Harad. Perhaps now they could go home.

_It ought to be sufficient, anyway,_ Amdir thought sourly. _The damned thing cost us dearly enough._

The Captain's tent was twice the size of the officers' quarters, and like a palace compared to the sergeants' tent that Amdir shared with five other men. It rose majestically in the center of the camp, draped with the red and sable banners of Harad. Those banners had ceased to bother Amdir months ago.

They were pirates, after all – or they had been, before the War. Running under another ship's colors was natural to them. Amdir had even grown accustomed to wearing the sandmen's dresses, though it made riding his horse a challenge. They did seem cooler in the heat, and the veil at least had some practical use against the constantly blowing sand.

He signaled a halt before the double paneled entranceway. A guard stepped forward to take his reins, and the crowd that had been following them spread out, men craning their necks for a better look. The Elf's head lolled weakly as the soldiers pulled him down from the horse's back where he had been tied. Amdir saw a wet shine of blood in his hair.

"Careful," he said, stepping back to make room as they hoisted the Elf up. "Captain won't take kindly to you damaging the goods."

"Captain can go whistle for his goods," muttered one of Amdir's men, holding a bloodstained cloth against his eye. "He don't care much for the damage that bloody Elf done to _me._"

"Shut your mouth, Tergil," Amdir snapped. "Or watch out the Captain don't shut it for you. Could be he's watching you now."

Tergil glowered at him with his good eye, but subsided. A guard stepped out of the tent and held aside one of the flaps. "Captain says to bring the prisoner inside now."

Amdir straightened. He nodded to the men who carried the Elf and strode forward, hoping that his face did not betray the rapid pounding of his heart. He ducked through the first, then the second layers of canvas, and held the interior flap open as his men dragged the Elf through behind him.

The Captain's tent was cool and dark after the blinding heat outside. Amdir stood, blinking, as his men deposited their prize on the carpet at his feet.

"Sergeant Amdir," the Captain's deep voice came from somewhere in the shadows. "You were successful."

"Yes, my lord," Amdir said, bowing in the direction of the voice. The bowing had also taken some getting used to. But the Captain had said that it wasn't enough just to look like the sandmen's army: they had to act like them too. Amdir didn't care. He'd bow and scrape until the end of the world if it meant that the usurpers would be overthrown, and that Umbar would be theirs again.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he saw the Captain's tall form come forward from the shadows. Amdir was struck as ever by the speed and silence with which the great man moved. His rolling gait spoke of a lifetime at sea, but his soft-soled boots made hardly a whisper on the carpet, and he was across the tent almost before Amdir could draw breath.

The Captain crouched down, balancing easily on his toes to examine their captive. The skirts of his robe pooled about him, and he rested one large hand on the scimitar's hilt at his waist. With his other hand he combed the Elf's hair back. For a moment the lamplight illuminated the planes of his lean face, and Amdir saw a look of naked greed there, like hunger. Then it was gone.

"He did not come easily, my lord," Amdir said as the Captain drew back his hand, frowning. Blood glistened on his fingertips.

"Indeed," the Captain said, rising to his feet. A yeoman handed him a cloth. He wiped his fingers absently, staring down at Amdir with hooded eyes. Amdir swallowed.

"He killed four of my men, lord! Tergil may have lost an eye, and there's no knowing if Kailim will walk again."

"Impressive." The Captain raised an eyebrow. "And he managed this whilst surrounded by your men on horseback, not to mention your archers, and while he himself was unarmed."

Amdir didn't ask how the Captain knew that the Elf had been weaponless. "Your orders were not to shoot him, lord. And . . . in the battle, he got hold of one of the men's swords."

"An unfortunate happenstance, to be sure," the Captain said mildly. "What of his horse? You did not shoot it?"

"No, my lord." Amdir felt his cheeks heat. "It ran away."

"It ran away? That is all?"

Amdir took a breath. The Captain's black eyes seemed to pierce straight through him, eliminating any hope of dissembling. "No, lord. The Elf . . . said something to it. It sounds mad, I know, but I swear that he did. It trampled two of my men and then it ran away."

"Ah." The Captain's thin lips drew back in what might have been a smile. "You had best go and find it then, had you not?"

"Yes, lord." Amdir bowed and retreated. He was nearly at the entrance when the Captain lifted a hand.

"Sergeant Amdir. Capture the horse, but if at all possible do not kill it. It may prove useful."

"Yes, lord." Amdir bowed again and backed through the entranceway, his men following in his wake. The heat struck him like a hammer blow, but he breathed in the dusty air gratefully. His heart was pounding, and he could not help feeling, as he always did after his encounters with the Captain, that he had made a narrow escape.

*~*~*

The pain was different this time. It radiated from a single point at Legolas' temple, waxing with each beat of his pulse. Without stirring or opening his eyes he concentrated on it for a long moment. He could feel a sharp stinging – the skin was broken. The deeper pain was caused by pressure on the nerve: a bruise, he thought, but superficial to the skull. The bone itself was undamaged.

Satisfied that the injury was a minor one, Legolas dismissed it and moved on. Something rough was cutting into his wrists – his hands were bound behind his back, dragging painfully at his shoulders. Careful not to move or shift his weight, he traced his bonds with one forefinger. The rope was thin and tough as binder's twine, looped tightly about his wrists and tied to a smooth, heavy post that dug into his back. His legs were bent beneath him, and pressure at his ankles told him that they too were tied.

Legolas weighed his tactical situation. He had rope, and if the post behind him could be broken it might serve as a club. Moreover, there was a lamp burning nearby, judging by the smell. He had fire. So much for his strengths. As for liabilities, his physical injuries would not slow him overly much in a fight. Of greater concern was the effect on his mind and senses. He was weakened, he knew, by the long ride through the desert night and the encounter with the Haradic soldiers, but far more than that he was still reeling from Aragorn's assault.

The link between his body and _faer _was now tenuous. Even the simple exercise of self-diagnosis had drained far more of his energy than it should have done. He felt dull, his senses muffled and his thoughts muddled by hurt and betrayal. His breath came shallow and faint in his lungs, as though there were a great weight on his chest.

With an effort Legolas forced himself to focus. He had neither the time nor the skill to heal those deep wounds, if ever they could be healed. The immediate problem was the rope at his wrists, which was proving to be distressingly well tied.

"There is no need to feign sleep, Master Elf," a deep, gravelly voice spoke close by his ear. "I know that you are awake."

Legolas froze. His senses must be compromised indeed, for he had not known that there was any other being in the tent. Belatedly he registered the sound of the Man's breathing, the smell of his sweat and the rustle of his robes as he straightened. Legolas did not waste time in cursing himself for his lapse, but added it to the list of his liabilities. Clearly he was weaker than he had supposed.

Still – he had not moved. He was certain of that. Even his heart had not changed its beat as he gained awareness of his surroundings. Perhaps the Man was bluffing.

There was a tinkle of water in a glass. "Come now, Master Elf," the voice sounded amused. "You must be thirsty."

Legolas was acutely aware that he had drunk nothing during the long ride across the desert, and that he had been sorely used since then. His throat constricted painfully, and his lips were parched. But he gave no sign.

There was a long pause. Then a douse of water struck him full in the face. Legolas recoiled, sputtering, and blinked the water from his eyes.

A tall Man stood looking down at him, a faint smile curving his lips. Black robes fell from his broad shoulders to the floor, snuggled close by a wide sash at his waist. A short curved sword rested at his hip. There was an aristocratic air to his thin features and neatly trimmed beard, marred only by a long scar that ran from the corner of his mouth up past his left temple.

His hair and beard were black, as were his eyes. They gleamed like chips of obsidian in the dim light. "Better. I fear, however, that you have spilled your drink for this day." He held up a goblet, and turned it over before Legolas' eyes. A single drop of water ran down to the golden rim and clung there, growing fat.

The droplet fell and spattered on the carpet. The Man shrugged and set the cup aside. "A great pity," he said, "for I cannot offer you another. Water is precious in the desert."

Legolas said nothing as the water ran and dripped off his chin. The Man pulled a chair about to face him and sat. He steepled his fingers and regarded Legolas over their tips.

"I am Dragaer," he said. "And you are my guest."

Legolas made note of the word. When he did not reply Dragaer continued. "So. The Gondorian usurpers have invaded. And while their army strikes toward Haradhur, they send their pet Elf to spy the land elsewhere . . . why? What brings you to our little camp, Master Elf?"

Legolas met the Man's gaze in stony silence. There was no doubt that he would be tortured, if he remained here, and killed when his captors tired of him. But if this Man believed that a warrior of Mirkwood would betray his companions so easily then he was sadly mistaken.

Dragaer sighed and sat back in his chair. "I confess that you are the first of your kind that I have encountered, Master Elf. Tell me: are all your people as talkative as you are?"

He paused, tapping his fingers against his mouth. "The people of Harad have no quarrel with the Elves. Why do you cling so to the mad King of Gondor? Do you think he will protect you now?"

He leaned forward, and Legolas, looking full into his eyes, caught his breath. _He had seen that look before._ How many times had he looked into Aragorn's eyes and seen the darkness fill them? Those same glittering black eyes had looked at him from Aragorn's face during the attack. And this place: the dead air and the weight he felt even now upon him . . . it was not due to his weakness after all. He had felt it before.

Legolas looked away, searching the opulent furnishings of the tent. There were rich rugs and sumptuous couches, cushions and draperies – even the post to which he was tied, he saw now, belonged to a massive four-poster bed, all wrought with designs of Harad. The only item out of place was a battered oil lamp that hung from the tent's ridgepole.

It _was _here. It had to be. But it would be tucked away apart from this crass display of wealth, for the man who commanded this army, Legolas was certain, knew that true power was hidden. And finally he saw it. In a darkened corner of the tent, behind the oaken desk, there was a small table. And on the table there was a round lump covered by a black silk cloth.

The last piece clicked into place, and Legolas knew. He looked back at the Man before him.

"This army is not from Harad. It is not for you to say if the Haradrim favor my people."

Dragaer stared at him. Then he laughed, standing and spreading his arms to take in the luxury around them. "Not from Harad? What's all this, then?"

"Spoils," Legolas said. "Plunder taken from trade ships along the coast, or else bought with stolen gold. The Haradrim were enslaved by Sauron for many years. Their wealth was scattered, and no army of theirs would travel so far bearing such heavy tokens."

"Then why should mine?"

"To maintain the illusion," Legolas said. His mind felt clearer, and he could see it all: of course the army would have to be disguised to the last detail. The palantír could not lie.

He continued scornfully. "But like a poor marksman, you overshot the target. Where a true commander would have subtlety you have gross exaggeration. And there the falsehood is revealed."

Dragaer snorted. "Do you think that this army is an illusion, Elf? I could call the guards outside to prove to you how very wrong you are."

"The army is real enough," Legolas said. "But your men speak Common to each other, not Haradic, and they trip over their robes when they fight. You camp on the very edge of the desert because you fear to trespass too deeply into tribal land. And now you bind me with rope tied in sailors' knots, in a tent lit by a ship's oil lamp, and expect me to believe that I am a captive of Harad? You have much to learn of the Elves, _Sea-wolf_."1

Dragaer's face darkened. "I know a great deal about Elves, _Prince_ Legolas." Swiftly he bent down and grasped Legolas' collar. He pulled it aside and pressed his finger to the red bruise on Legolas' skin. "I know more about you than you think."

Legolas twisted away, but the rope at his wrists constrained him, and the next moment Dragaer seized his hair and hauled him back. His breath was hot against Legolas' ear as he hissed, "I know all about you, and your King."

"You did this to him," Legolas gasped. "You deceived him with the palantír, and you planted the madness in his mind –"

"Do you think that?" Dragaer laughed. "You do me a great honor, Master Elf, to imagine that I could force King Elessar to do aught. No. I merely gave him what he wished to see. He wanted an enemy in the desert, and lo – there it was. Perhaps not exactly where he thought, but then the hills are very similar throughout. He expected a conspiracy against him, and so his allies conspired. He wanted you . . . and there you were."

"You lie!" Legolas stopped trying to pull away and instead jerked his head sharply to the side, into Dragaer's grasp. The Man had not expected that, and he yelped in pain when Legolas' skull collided with his mouth. He staggered to his feet.

"_I _lie?" Blood flecked Dragaer's lips. He touched his fingers to his mouth and looked at them. "There are none so blind as those who will not see, Elf, and none tell falsehoods like those who lie to themselves."

He backhanded Legolas across the face. Legolas saw it coming, and tried to dodge, but his bonds held him fast. The blow knocked him to one side, the ropes dragging painfully at his arms. The side of his face went numb.

Dragaer knelt down and gently brushed the hair back from his face. "I did nothing against Elessar's will," he said. "Nothing. I only showed him the truth in his heart, the truth that he was too proud to face."

He sighed. "I had hoped that he would finish it himself, but in the end it seems he was too cowardly even for that. Still . . ." his hand lingered on Legolas' hair, "perhaps it is for the best. There are . . . compensations to be had this way."

Legolas stiffened. He shook off the touch and sat up, ignoring the protest of his shoulders.

Dragaer sat back on his heels. His obsidian stare met Legolas' eyes. He spoke quietly, his deep voice utterly matter-of-fact.

"I have heard it said that Elves will die of rape. Now tell me, Master Elf, does this death come upon you suddenly, or might you linger for a while first?"

Legolas went cold. This then was the purpose behind Aragorn's madness, the palantír, the Corsair army disguised as Haradrim . . . it all fit together. He knew what the Corsair captain intended, and it reached far beyond base lust. He had manipulated them all, and Legolas thought with sick horror that even this served his design.

He fixed the Man with a piercing glare and tried to conceal his fear.

"I will live," he said, "to see you fail and your army scattered to the winds. I will live to kill you myself."

Dragaer smiled. "Good," he said. "That's all I needed to know."

* * *

1 Dragaer: From 'draug,' wolf, and 'gaer', sea.


	28. Shattered

**Warning:** If you've made it this far in the story, you can handle this chapter. But if Aragorn's attack was bad, this is worse. **This chapter contains scenes of physical violence, coercion, and mental domination. Rape, while NOT explicit, is strongly implied. **

l

"The horror. The horror."

– Joseph Conrad, _Heart of Darkness_

Chapter 27: Shattered

"The baby has dropped," Ioreth said. The old woman's blue-veined hands pressed gently against Èowyn's belly. "It won't be much longer now."

"I knew that she had," Èowyn said. "I could feel the difference when I arose this morning. She's much lower now."

Ioreth nodded. "You'll feel the change in weight when you move, and you must be careful that it does not strain your back." She sighed. "You really should be in bed, my lady."

It was an old argument. Ioreth apparently believed that all mothers-to-be should remain bedridden for the duration of their term. But despite that she was a good and knowledgeable midwife, and Èowyn was too happy at the prospect of finally delivering her child to pick a fight today.

She ignored the mild rebuke and asked, "When?"

Ioreth sucked on her teeth. "You've had no pains, and your passage is closed. It won't be today, in any case. It will be in the next week, perhaps. You must not over-exert yourself, my lady. If you must walk outside, confine yourself to the gardens and avoid the refuse piles and bad smells or sights that might upset you. The baby will tell you when it is time."

Èowyn nodded. She was impatient to see her child at last, but she knew that the midwife was right. She never had been good at sitting and waiting for events to unfold beyond her control.

Ioreth poured water from a pitcher into a stone basin by the window and began to wash her hands. Èowyn sat up and pulled her dress back into place. She rested a hand against the low curve of her belly.

"What are you waiting for, little girl?" she murmured. "It's a beautiful spring day. Don't you want to come out and play?"

Ioreth turned, a towel in her hands. "May I ask a question, my lady?"

Èowyn was looking past her, at the sunshine that streamed through the open window. She could see glimpses of blue sky as the muslin curtains fluttered in the breeze. It was a perfect day for a ride.

"Mmm," she said absently.

"In Gondor women generally wish for a male child. As they say, 'A boy to guard the hearth, a girl to marry off.' Do you have a different custom in Rohan?"

"Oh!" Èowyn came back to earth with a start. "No, I suppose that most families would wish for a son, at least for the first-born. But for some reason I've always felt that this one is a girl." She shrugged. "Faramir thought so also. He's hoping for a daughter. Of course," she added hastily, "It really doesn't matter, as long as the baby's healthy."

"Of course," Ioreth said. Her lips pursed as if she were about to say more, but a knock on the chamber door interrupted her.

Èowyn got to her feet and smoothed down the front of her dress. "Enter!"

"Lady Èowyn," the door-guard leaned inside. "Queen Undómiel would see you."

"Thank you," Éowyn said. "Please show her in."

She had scarcely spoken when Arwen strode into the room. Ioreth hastened to curtsy, bowing as low as her rheumatism would allow. "Your Majesty!" Then, looking up, she blanched. "My lady! What is wrong?"

Arwen's face was white. The circles beneath her eyes showed like dark bruises against her skin. She gave Ioreth a strained smile. "Lady Ioreth, would you please excuse us for a moment? I need to speak with my lady Èowyn."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Ioreth was clearly curious, but she gathered her things and departed with relative haste.

Arwen waited until the door had closed behind her. Her long hands tangled in the skirts of her robes, pulling at the fabric. Something must be very wrong indeed, Èowyn realized, to bring her here during one of Ioreth's visits. Arwen had questioned Èowyn extensively about mortal practices in childbearing in the days since Èowyn had learned her secret, but at the same time she assiduously avoided the midwife's company. Ioreth was both keenly perceptive and a devoted gossip, and once she deduced that the Queen was with child the whole city would know it within the hour.

"What is it?" Èowyn asked when they were alone.

Arwen took a breath. "Gimli has been arrested."

"What!" Èowyn stared at her. "On what charges?"

"There are no charges, so near as I can determine," Arwen said. "Captain Aelon will only say that it is by order of King Elessar. He claims it is for Gimli's protection."

"His protection?" Èowyn snorted. "His protection against _what?_"

"I do not know," Arwen said. "But I have my suspicions. Èowyn, the order was carried by a pigeon from Dol Amroth. Legolas told me that Imrahil would try to verify if there really was an army massing in Harad . . ."

"Elessar must have discovered their plan," Èowyn whispered. "Dear Eru, Èomer. . ."

"We do not know that," Arwen said. "But it seems clear to me that Elessar wishes to prevent Gimli from leaving the city. I do not know why."

"I do," Èowyn said. Long buried memories of Grima Wormtongue rose in her mind. She braced herself against a chair, her stomach churning. "It's about control. He wants Gimli under his power, like Faramir."

Arwen shook her head. "But why now? Gimli was directing the city's defenses – he had no intention of leaving. Elessar could see that for himself."

She had a point. Èowyn thought for a moment, chewing on her lip. "Assume that Elessar did it deliberately," she said. "He arranges for Gimli to stay behind. Then, after the army has left, he has him arrested. Why? Even if Elessar did discover Imrahil's plan, what has that to do with Gimli?"

Arwen went very still. "Not the army," she said. "Legolas. He waited until _Legolas _was away from the city, and then had Gimli arrested."

"He could hardly have done it sooner," Èowyn observed. "Legolas would have –" she broke off, meeting Arwen's eyes.

"Legolas would never permit it," Arwen said. "He would break down the doors to get Gimli out. He would –"

"That's it," Èowyn said. Her breath was coming swift and shallow. "Legolas would do anything to free his friend. Elessar knows that. He's planning something and he needs a way to control . . . oh Eru. He planned this from the beginning! Arwen, why am I here? Why is Lothíriel here?"

Arwen's eyes widened. "Aragorn said it was for your protection . . ." she stopped. After a moment she continued, her voice shaking. "You were for Faramir, and Èomer King. And Lothíriel is as well, but also for Imrahil, I think."

"We were welcome to stay 'for as long as necessary,'" Èowyn said grimly. "That's what he told Faramir. And we walked right into it. He had us lined up perfectly, all that was missing . . ."

"Was a way to control Legolas," Arwen finished. "He has that now."

"We must leave," Èowyn said. Her mouth was dry. "We have to get out of Minas Tirith. Now."

Arwen looked at her. "All we have are suspicions and guesswork," she said. "It may be that none of it is true. Aragorn might truly be trying to protect us."

"And Wormtongue was naught but a faithful advisor to Théoden King," Èowyn said. "And horses might sprout wings and fly. Arwen, you know that is folly!"

"I know," Arwen said. "I only wish that it were otherwise." She stood for a long moment with head bowed. When she spoke again her voice was steady. "Èomer is your brother. When Elessar learns that you have left . . ."

"I know," Èowyn said. "But I will not be held hostage by my brother, nor allow Elessar to use me against him. Why arrest Gimli now? What special need had he to restrain Legolas at this moment? Whatever he has planned, it has already begun."

Arwen's head snapped up. Èowyn met her gaze and finished, "King Elessar _wants _us in this city. As far as I am concerned that is reason enough to leave, and quickly."

"And Faramir?"

Èowyn swallowed. "I cannot leave him in Elessar's dungeon. Queen Undómiel, if you have any power to release him . . ."

Arwen sighed. "I would be commanding Aelon to disobey the King. I do not know if he would listen. If he did it would be treason, for both of us. And Elessar would surely know."

She stood silent for a long moment. One hand rested gently against the low swell of her belly. Èowyn hesitated. Then she said quietly, "You cannot save him, Arwen. He is gone – the arrest of Gimli proves it. He is dangerous to you, and to your child."

"I know." Arwen closed her eyes. "But I love him even so." She shook her head to forestall Èowyn's protest. "Leave me be, please. I know what I must do, for my child if for nothing else. And as for Faramir – I will try."

*~*~*

The Corsair army moved slowly west. Dragaer had yet to make good on his threat, but Legolas knew that he was only biding his time. He'd ordered the army to break camp within the hour of Legolas' capture, and they marched through the heat of the day toward the coast. Legolas was bound upon a horse at the captain's side.

He suffered the indignity quietly. He could not fight his way free through the thousands strong army. He could only wait, and watch his opportunity to escape. In the meanwhile it was best if the Captain thought him weak.

It was not far from the truth, Legolas knew. As they neared Umbar he felt the sea's call more strongly than he had ever done before. It closed upon him like a fog, whiting out the dust and tramp of the army, the torment of thirst and the discomfort of the ropes that cut into his wrists and pulled him off balance.

He _wanted _to lose himself in it. He wanted to let the peace fill him, to forget his pain and the near panic that threatened to choke him with every possessive look, every hateful touch that Dragaer laid upon him.

They stopped only once to water the horses. A small tarpaulin was erected, and there the Captain ordered Legolas seated at his side. Several Corsairs stood in a ring around them, their swords drawn, as Dragaer loosened the ropes at Legolas' wrists and bathed his raw flesh.

Soaking a cloth in water he wiped the dust from Legolas' face and hands. He wrung the cloth over Legolas' hair, smoothing it down until the wet strands clung to Legolas' neck. Dragaer sat back to survey his handiwork as a man might study his pet.

"Much better," he said, running the tip of one finger down Legolas' cheek.

Legolas stiffened. One of the Corsairs behind him lowered his sword so that the blade touched Legolas' neck.

Dragaer smiled. He took the saturated cloth from the bowl of now dirty water and held it, dripping, to Legolas' mouth. "Drink," he said.

Legolas turned his face away.

Dragaer laughed. "That is twice now that you have refused. Do you think that the water will become sweeter as we travel?"

He caught Legolas' chin, dragging the Elf back to face him. His eyes glittered inches from Legolas' own. "I could make you wallow in your own filth, Elf, and beg leave to drink from my chamber pot."

He paused, looking searchingly at Legolas. Legolas glared back at him. A glimmer of respect came into Dragaer's eyes. "And even then you would not yield," he said. "So this is what Elessar saw in you."

His thumb brushed over Legolas' lips.

Legolas could have killed him then. Faster than sight he would leap to his feet, grab a sword from unprepared hands, pivot and bring it down in one sweeping, deadly motion – the Corsair's blade nicked his throat as he recoiled, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his skin.

Dragaer rose to his feet. "Signal the march," he said to the officers around them. "We ride on."

Hard hands closed on Legolas' arms, dragging him to his feet and yanking the bonds at his wrists cruelly tight again. Dragaer paused, then turned back to press his fingers against the cut under Legolas' jaw.

"I will break you, my proud Elf," he said.

Legolas did not reply. Dragaer turned away. The horses were led up, and Legolas allowed himself to be lifted back into the hard, unfamiliar saddle. Arod at least had escaped. He would make his way back to Aragorn's encampment. But it would take time, and longer still for Èomer to read the clues and track him back to the Corsairs' trail. That was time that Legolas knew he did not have.

The horns blew and the army lurched into uneven motion. Legolas suffered his horse to follow upon the lead tied to Dragaer's saddle, averting his eyes so that he did not look at the Captain's back.

Despite what Dragaer believed, it was not the Corsair's blade or even the surrounding army that had stayed his hand at that critical moment. He could die here and it would not matter, so long as he took Dragaer with him.

But that would not stop the Corsair army. The Men were fearful of their Captain, but they moved with their own purpose. To stop them and to save Gondor, and Arwen, and Gimli – to save Aragorn – Legolas had to live. He had to warn them.

*~*~*

Dusk came while they were still miles from the seashore. Legolas suspected that this was in accordance with Dragaer's plan. The Captain called a halt in a small valley at the borderline between the desert scrub and the softer sand along the shore, where dunes clotted by beach grass obscured the setting sun. There, sheltered from the constant wind, Dragaer ordered all torches extinguished while the scouts rode ahead.

They were so close now that the sea's call was physically painful. Legolas tried to shut it out as he did the heat and thirst and the constant chafing of the ropes at his wrists, but he lacked the strength. The Men bound him unresisting to the foot of the Captain's chair. He lay there, drifting upon the music of the distant waves, and when during a discussion with his commanders Dragaer reached down to stroke his hair Legolas scarcely noticed.

Night fell. The breeze picked up, rustling the grasses. The hills were featureless bulks of shadow in the darkness, for the sky was heavily overcast with no hint of moon or starlight.

Then Dragaer signaled the march. No trumpet rang, no torch was lit, but in darkness they walked with cloaks drawn to hide any gleam of armor or weaponry, the tramp of boots and hooves muffled by the shifting sand.

The thought was slow to filter through the haze of hurt that clouded Legolas' mind, but gradually it grew and took hold in the hidden recesses beneath the fog of thirst and betrayal and the soul-deep pull of the sea. _Escape._ Now was the time; he would not have a better. The Men moved slowly in the dark, groping through a night landscape that was clear and distinct to Legolas' eyes.

His hands were tightly bound to the saddle and his feet to the stirrups, but even so he was not helpless. Despite the barrier of saddle and bridle his horse had quickly warmed to him. He had but to break the lead rope that tied him to Dragaer's saddle and they would be free. He could outride the Corsairs: in the confusion and the darkness he would be gone before they realized it.

If only he did not hurt so much. If only the sea did not drag at him so. If only he could think without feeling again the pawing of brutal hands, the bruising kiss of another mouth on his, without seeing the hateful, possessive glitter of Aragorn's eyes. If only he could forget.

Legolas struggled to focus. He was still a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen. He was still a warrior trained in battle against the darkest of the Enemy's powers. He would not be defeated so easily. By the Valar, he would make these Men know what it meant to fight an Elf of Mirkwood.

He began to hum. It was hardly more than a vibration in his throat, soundless at first. He swallowed painfully and began again, louder this time. His horse's ears flicked back, then forward again. His voice was all but gone, his throat ravaged by thirst, but he kept on. The tune was discernable now, a swift rising cadence on the counter-beat to the army's march. His horse's ears swiveled back and remained there, cocked to the Elven voice. It sidestepped, pulling to the full length of the lead rope, and then slackened again. Legolas felt its muscles bunch beneath him.

A hand clamped over the back of Legolas' neck. Dragaer was at his side, riding so close that his leg pressed against Legolas'. The Captain's grip tightened, forcing Legolas to look at him.

"No more singing," Dragaer said. "Were we on a ship, the men would say it is bad luck. It upsets the horses, see?"

His thumb moved over Legolas' throat, pressing lightly against his windpipe. "When I want you to sing for me, Master Elf, believe me when I say that you will know it. In the meanwhile . . ." he lifted the flap of a leather saddlebag that rested against his thigh. Legolas saw a heavy sphere within: a deeper shadow in the dark. He shuddered, knowing what was coming next.

Dragaer passed his free hand over the palantír. Fire flared and swirled in its depths. Legolas gasped, bending almost double under the weight that pressed him down, straining his bonds until the fibrous rope pricked blood from his wrists.

"Look," Dragaer said. Legolas struggled to lift his head. Through slitted eyes he saw that the fire had cleared from within the seeing stone. There was the clear image of himself bound upon his horse, Dragaer's hand still at his neck. As he watched the tiny figure flickered and vanished in a swirl of flame. The palantír went dark.

The weight of power lessened. Legolas sat up, gulping the night air thankfully. Dragaer covered the stone again.

"I can see you, my Prince," he murmured for Legolas' ears alone. "Wherever you go, whatever you do – I am watching. I will find you. Remember that. There is no escaping me."

For a fleeting moment his fingers caressed Legolas' cheek. Then he dropped his hand and spurred his horse forward so that once again he rode ahead of his captive.

Legolas waited until he had regained his breath and his heart had slowed its frantic beat. Then he said, "Where did you get that palantír?"

Dragaer turned in his saddle. "The Dark Lord gave many gifts to his subjects, before the War, and he used them to his own purposes. Do not flatter yourself that his Eye was upon Gondor alone."

"Sauron did not create the palantíri," Legolas said. "The Eldar gifted them to the Men of Nùmenor."

"Indeed." Dragaer fixed him with a long, level stare. "Do you imagine, then, that your vaunted Gondorians are the only ones with the right to them? Doubtless Elessar would claim so. But I do believe, Master Elf, that you will find he is . . . mistaken."

*~*~*

They reached Umbar under the cover of darkness. Dragaer sent the army out, ringing the hills around the sleeping town. He kept Legolas close to his side as he rode to a central vantage point high above the bay, so that they looked down upon the tumble of uneven roofs spread below.

"They did not even post a guard," Dragaer said contemptuously. "Behold how great Gondor is, how drunk with its own power!"

Legolas scarcely heard him. He was transfixed by the shadowy movement of waves in the distant bay: liquid ripples in the black. There were ships in the harbour. A few were docked with sails furled, but far more were moving in, hemming them close to the shore. The ships sailed without lights, silent, ponderous and deceptively fast.

Dragaer raised his arm. Legolas tried to shout warning, though he knew it would do no good. His voice was thin and weak, and the wind whipped his words away. Dragaer brought his hand down. A single horn blew and was answered by the bone deep bass of a ship's foghorn. A flock of gulls rose from the quay in a flurry of beating wings.

Lights appeared in the darkness. The water reflected myriad flowers of flame that rose from the black ships and fell in a silent rain upon the thatch and timber of the town.

They were burning arrows, Legolas realized. In the light of a thousand small fires he saw the doors open, figures stumbling into the streets, sleepy children crying as their parents looked blearily about to see what was happening.

Dragaer shouted a command. The army roared. They swept down from the hills, carried by the momentum of their charge, horses staggering in the sand and being borne up by the ones behind, a united force that was unstoppable and unbreakable and crashed upon Umbar as a storm that shatters stone.

And the gulls screamed.

*~*~*

Afterward, they took Legolas to a ship. He was actually led aboard while still tied to the saddle, his horse blindfolded to prevent it balking at the gangplank. Four Men dragged him down, saddle, tack and all, and threw him still bound into a large cabin. Legolas landed heavily, unable to roll or break his fall. The heavy door slammed shut and was bolted from the outside, leaving him in semi-darkness.

He lay quiet for a time, listening to the hollow lap of waves against the ship's hull. The cabin was large but mostly empty save for a desk before the window and large bed that was suspended between four vertical posts that ran through the ship's decks from floor to ceiling. A watery orange light filtered through the mullioned windows. Umbar was burning.

He was alone. The Men were evidently afraid to untie him, or else impatient to rejoin the sacking of the town, and had left him unguarded. Doubtless they thought his current bonds sufficient. It was an error that they would soon regret.

Legolas found purchase for his feet in the iron stirrups and braced his hands against the smooth wood of the saddle. He tensed, then relaxed, testing for a weak point in the bonds that held him. He shifted his weight and tried again, tugging at each link: stirrup, rope, saddle. On the third try something creaked, and flexed a little. Legolas felt behind him and found a tiny raised crack in the wooden saddle. He shifted backward until the weak point was directly below him. Then he gripped the rope that bound him in both hands, braced his feet against the stirrups, and pulled.

He was weak. Aragorn's assault, and the drug, and the long night and day without food or drink had sapped his strength. He felt the weakness in himself, felt the hollow ache of the sea longing that sapped his will and made the effort to focus an agony. He did not have the physical strength to break free.

This was not _about _physical strength. Legolas rejected that, rejected the doubt that crept into his mind, rejected the sweet, deceptive call of the waves to give in, to be free of hurt and suffering. This was about strength of mind, and spirit, and no son of Thranduil would be made into a plaything to be called and used and discarded at a Man's bidding. He _would not._

Sweat beaded and trickled down his brow, stinging his eyes. Legolas' hands were slick: the ropes cutting so deeply now that the blood ran freely down his palms. Muscles knotted, stretched, and knotted again. There was no pain. There was no doubt. There was only the need to pull, and to keep pulling, and he would not stop while muscle and bone gave way, sinews tore and tendons snapped and he was a warrior of the Eldar, the body served at his command and it would not stop, would not stop, not even if it tore itself to pieces.

The saddle broke first. A large chunk of wood snapped off at the base with a crack like one of Mithrandir's fireworks. The force of recoil bowled Legolas completely over, and he lay dazed, panting amidst the wreckage of saddle, rope and tack.

He was free. Awareness returned slowly, fragments of consciousness drifting together and coalescing from the haze. His muscles were trembling so that it took everything he had to kneel upright. With shaking hands he unwound the rope from his wrists, wincing as he drew the fibers from the deep abrasions in his skin.

His boots had at least protected his ankles, but the ropes were cut so deeply into their leather that Legolas finally just pulled them off rather than attempt to untie them. On the second try he managed to stand, swaying dangerously as the deck rose and fell with the waves.

It was then, as he stood dizzy and barefoot amid the splintered wreck of saddle and ropes, his hair falling in long tangles over his face and the blood dripping from his fingers, that the bolt slid back and the cabin door opened.

Legolas looked up, blinking in the sudden light. Dragaer stood there, his tall form silhouetted against a sky lit by Umbar's fires. A dozen Men were around him, carrying lanterns and cudgels, but no swords. Legolas registered this instinctively, some deep part of him still operating at a tactical level, weighing advantages of speed and numbers, available weapons and ground to fight. The rest of his mind registered only pure, white rage.

It seemed an age that they stood there, frozen, facing each other across the width of cabin floor. Then a gull wheeled over the deck with a raucous cry, and several of the Men jumped. It broke the spell.

Dragaer stepped back and motioned his soldiers forward. "The Elf is loose," he said. "Capture him, but do not kill him."

The Men hesitated, each waiting for another to lead the way. Legolas bent quickly and picked up a length of rope. His hands felt too weak to close on it. He forced them to hold it tightly anyway, and looked at the Men, meeting the eyes of all those he could. "I will kill any Man who lays hands on me," he said.

Dragaer drew his cutlass with a hiss of steel. "I do not brook disobedience on my ship. The Elf is mine. Seize him or die here at my hand."

The Men were afraid of Legolas, but they feared their Captain more. One shouted and lunged forward, his club raised high, and the others poured in behind. Legolas used the rope as a whip, lashing the first Corsair across the face. As he fell back a second Man dove at Legolas from his left. Legolas dodged aside, and as the Man's momentum carried him past Legolas he looped the rope around his neck and yanked. The Man's neck snapped with a sound like the breaking of a branch under heavy snowfall. It froze every Man in place. They watched as Legolas dropped the rope and stepped past the body, and he saw their expressions harden. The stakes had just risen. They would kill him now, if Dragaer permitted it.

They surrounded Legolas. He ducked a blow from behind and came up with the saddle. Legolas smashed it into the face of a heavy-set sailor and then picked the dazed Man up and threw him bodily into the others. He was running on pure adrenalin, and he would pay dearly for it later, he knew. But all that mattered now was survival.

A tall Man with skin reddened by the fire aimed a heavy blow at Legolas' head. He dodged it and kicked the Man in the stomach, grabbing the club as it fell from his hands. Legolas spun and brought the cudgel down on another Man's head. The Corsair's skull broke with a wet, thick sound, and he slumped to the deck.

But Legolas' hands were slick with blood, and the shock of impact jarred the club from his grip. At the same moment he was struck from behind, the blow across his back staggering him. Someone kicked the back of his leg, and he dropped to his hands and knees. They fell on him, bearing him down with the sheer weight of numbers. There were too many of them now, and many of their blows landed on fellow Corsairs rather than the Elf, but Legolas was crushed beneath the mass of fighting, swearing, bleeding Men.

He tried to rise, dragging himself up and pulling them up with him, because he could not fall, would not fall, would not _allow _himself to fall. He made it to his knees, and saw Dragaer standing before him.

The Captain smiled. He reached down, and closed one large hand over Legolas' throat. He squeezed.

Blackness cut into the corners of Legolas' vision. He struck out hard, aiming for the nerve cluster at the inside of Dragaer's wrist, but two of the Men behind him caught his arms and dragged them behind his back.

Long, rope-calloused fingers loosened just enough so that Legolas could breathe, the air thin and whistling in his lungs. The darkness receded so that he could hear the order that Dragaer gave. Then, as he recoiled, the fingers tightened again.

Hands closed upon him, ripping at his clothes. His tunic gave at the weak point where Aragorn had torn it. They stripped it from his shoulders, pulled it from his belt and cast it aside. Dragaer's hand was like a steel band at his throat, the Men behind Legolas holding his arms in iron grip. He closed his eyes.

The leggings were more difficult. Elven cloth did not tear easily, and they had no knives. For a moment Legolas hoped they would be frustrated, but Dragaer snorted impatiently and gave them his cutlass. The steel sliced close enough to scrape Legolas' skin, for with their comrades lying dead nearby none of the Men was inclined to be gentle. A careless jerk of the hand scored a line across Legolas' hip. Dragaer saw it, and swore. Then they were more careful.

Getting him to the bed was almost impossible. Legolas fought madly: kicking, punching, gouging, and biting when they tried to lift him. Two more of their number fell before they wrestled the Elf down and managed to tie his hands to the thick oaken timbers of the great bed.

One of the Men punched Legolas in the stomach, and as he curled in on himself, gasping for air, two of them threw themselves on him to hold him down. He felt hands on his feet, a rope looped around his ankle, and he bucked the Men off him and kicked out viciously. His foot connected with a solid crunch of breaking bone. One of the Men yelled and fell back, clutching his face.

It could not last. There was no thought in Legolas' mind but to escape, no desire save the animal need to be free. But he was driving his body beyond anything it had endured before, drawing on reserves that he did not have. He had been close to fading after Aragorn's attack, his heart near broken by the betrayal of his trust and love. He had been cruelly used in the interim and now, burdened with the weight of despair as well as the Men who crushed him down, near mad with the conflicting longing and pain of the sea's call, he was fighting on by sheer strength of will.

It was not enough. The Corsairs swarmed him en masse and held him down as first one and then the other of his legs was tied to the bed's massive end posts. They stood up slowly, reluctant to believe that their captive was finally subdued.

Dragaer came forward. He stood looking down at Legolas, turning his cutlass absently in his hands.

"Well done," he said at last. "Leave us."

The Men retreated, grumbling and nursing their wounds, and took their fallen mates with them. The door clicked shut, leaving Legolas and the Captain alone.

Dragaer regarded him in silence awhile longer. Legolas stared back, breathing hard. He put all the fury and defiance he could into that glare as he lay naked before the Man. But his stomach was knotted in fear.

Finally Dragaer looked away. He walked across to the desk and rummaged in it. There was a tinkle of water, and he came back, holding a cup in one hand and a satchel in the other. Legolas' eyes were drawn at once to the cup, and he forced himself to look away.

Dragaer held the cup to his mouth. Legolas refused, but the Captain gripped the back of his neck, forcing his lips to open, and the water was lukewarm but clean. He drank greedily, choking when the water came too fast, sputtering and drinking again, despising himself for it but unable to stop.

The Captain let him finish the cup and then put it aside. He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his hand through Legolas' hair. His fingers snagged in a tangle, and Legolas hissed and jerked his head away.

"You fight well," Dragaer said at last.

Legolas turned his face away. "Whatever you intend, do it. Do not drag it out with pleasantries."

Dragaer chuckled. "But this is pleasant, Master Elf. I grant that you may not appreciate it at the moment, but I feel the power in you, the rage, leashed at my command. You are completely in my control, and still you fight. You would kill me if you could. No wonder Elessar wished to master you. You are intoxicating."

Calloused fingers caressed the bite mark at Legolas' neck. Legolas tried to squirm away, but the ropes held him fast. Dragaer stroked his cheek, his ear, the line of his jaw and neck and chest while Legolas strained in helpless fury.

"Why are you doing this?" he cried.

Dragaer bent close so that his beard tickled Legolas' cheek. The Captain's breath was hot against Legolas' ear. "Elessar would claim you for himself. And for that, I shall have you."

"You lie!" Legolas threw back his head. His hands clenched, and his back arched. The muscles of his arms and legs stood out like knotted cords. The ropes at his wrists and ankles stretched taut, then stretched further. A low groan sounded like the creak of a great oak tree in a gale. Dragaer looked up in alarm. A vertical crack was growing in one of the bed's timbers.

"Stop!" Dragaer shouted. "Stop! By the Valar, Elf!" He seized the satchel from the floor and tipped it out on the bed. The palantír rolled up against Legolas' side.

Legolas cried out and flinched away from the burning cold. Dragaer grabbed his hair, forcing his face toward the sphere. "I'll make him watch," he said. "Your precious King is half-mad already, thinking he has hurt you. What do you think that will do to him? Eh? By all the gods, I will rape you before his eyes, and I'll make him think it was him that did it."

Legolas subsided, shuddering. The thought of anyone seeing him now was more than he could bear. What Dragaer proposed was horror beyond imagining. He would do anything; pay any price to prevent that.

Satisfied with his submission, the Captain set the palantír aside and covered it again. He stood, looking down on Legolas, and began to undo the fastenings of his robe.

Bile rose, stinging Legolas' throat. He swallowed. "You admit, then, that you caused Elessar's madness?"

Dragaer shrugged. The robe dropped to the floor. He bent down to undo the lacings of his boots. "Perhaps. The suspicions were already there, in his mind. Even with the palantír I could not control him. I merely . . . directed him to see the parts of himself he might not otherwise have acknowledged."

"That is a half-truth at best," Legolas spat. "Will you lie to me now? You twisted his mind, you planted this . . . this sick desire in him."

Dragaer paused, his hands at his belt. "Think you so? But consider this, my Prince. I first suggested that he force himself on his lovely Queen. Raping her, I thought, would surely be the end of him. But he resisted. I could not make him do it. Yet for you . . . for _you_, he made no such resistance. I wonder why that is?"

Legolas went cold. Dragaer's words froze something deep within him. _He comes to me some nights,_ Arwen had said. But for Arwen, Aragorn had resisted. He would not harm her. He _could _resist hurting them – he was strong enough. But though Legolas would do anything to save his friend, Aragorn would not do the same for him.

Legolas' heart seemed to cease its beat. It was hollow and empty and burning like the seeing stone itself.

"No," he whispered. "No." He shook his head. His vision blurred with tears. "Why? _Why are you doing this?_"

The Captain pressed a finger to Legolas' lips. "Hush. No more talking."

Legolas' eyes were shut. He did not see Dragaer unfasten his belt. But he heard the clink of the buckle, and the rustle as the leggings were shed. He felt the bed sink as the Captain climbed onto it. He felt rough palms against his skin, sliding down his chest and abdomen, grasping his hips.

That was the last that he felt. In desperation, in despair, he retreated. His mind refused to acknowledge what was happening to him, and so he fled. The sea's song was a siren call, filling him, claiming him for its own, and he answered it.

For the first time since the fateful day at Pelagir, Legolas gave himself wholly to the sea-longing. He took that which had been his curse, his greatest weakness, and used it now as his last defense. He lost himself in the welcome embrace of the sea.

But though the link between his body and _faer_ was strained past all endurance, he would not yield it. And because he would not, the assault came even into this last refuge. He could not escape it; all he could do in last, feeble defense was to change its form.

_It was the sea._ He repeated it again and again, willing himself to believe it. It was the sea that clutched him, dragged at him, scraped his skin on rocky shores. Waves of iron slammed into him, tearing the breath from his lungs. _It was the sea._ It came hard, piercing him and breaking him, body, mind and soul. Burning, searing cold drove into him, agonizing pain, so that he would surely split in two. _It was the sea._ His face was wet with spray, with tears. He tasted salt.

The scream rose first from his _faer_, echoing in his mind, shattering all bonds and links of friendship, of family, of love. It tore from the freezing agony of every nerve and sinew, from every stubborn fiber of his mind that would not acknowledge, could not admit, the true horror of his breaking. It burst from his throat: a scream of anguish that drowned the Captain's shout of triumph and cried across the waves and was suddenly, finally, cut off.

And the sea swallowed all.


	29. All Hail the Queen

"There must be some way out of here,

said the Joker to the Thief."

–Bob Dylan, _All Along the Watchtower_

Chapter 28: All Hail the Queen

Dragaer strode from his cabin, pulling his cloak around his shoulders as he went. The men nearest him struggled to their feet, still holding the treasures they'd looted from the town. He grabbed a leather purse from the nearest one and threw it down the stairs. It burst open, scattering copper pennies across the wet planks.

"On deck, you dogs," he shouted. "Sound the horn and stow the goods! Summon every lazy sod what calls himself a sailor and get him back on ship! Man the fleet! We sail in one hour!"

There was a moment's stunned silence. But the money stirred even the most hung-over into action, and a ragged chorus of "aye Captains" rose as the men scrambled for the coins.

The ship's horn blew, deafening in the enclosed space of the dock, and lights kindled and sprang from ship to ship until the whole bay seemed to be full of stars. Those with sufficient presence of mind lowered small rowboats to ferry men from shore out to the more distant ships.

Dragaer leaned against the ship's rail high above the main deck, watching the activity with a practiced eye. "Galemir," he said, and his second was instantly at his side.

"My lord?"

Dragaer cast him an amused look. "I am not your lord here," he said. "We're just sailors now, and I'm only the captain of a ship. Is that clear?"

"_A _ship?" Galemir looked as if he would argue, but recovered himself. "Yes, Captain."

"Good." Dragaer nodded. "The next man who calls me lord will have his tongue cut out. Pass the word on, will you?"

Galemir swallowed. "Aye, Captain."

"Very good." Dragaer sighed. "We've been playing at soldiers. Well, playtime is over. I want every Haradic robe, tent and banner stored ashore. Everything that can be spared, save for weapons, is left behind. We'll sail light and fast. The ninth battalion, that is the crews from _Seahawk _and _Chimera_, will stay here to guard the town. Their ships with skeleton crews will transport the horses –"

"My L – Captain!" Galemir stammered.

Dragaer raised an eyebrow. Galemir's normally red face flushed a darker hue, but he pressed on. "Captain, you don't mean to actually leave now? When we've only just won? It's what we've been waiting for all these years! We have Umbar –"

"We have Umbar," Dragaer sneered. "You ignorant fool. How long will we keep it? Eh? When Gondor and Rohan's army come, how long will we last?"

"We have the army."

"The army," Dragaer spat. "We have six thousand men and a hundred ships. And not one of those men has spent more than six months in training, and not one of them has a complete set of armor, and not one of them can fight without tripping on his robes or falling off his Morgoth-begotten horse. That is no army. It's a ragged band of thieves and pirates, and the only reason they haven't betrayed us yet is that they haven't had any better prospects."

"Then why are we here?" Galemir cried. "Why did we suffer all that time, and train, if we couldn't win? Why did you bring us to Umbar if we cannot hold it?"

Dragaer was still. He waited until the man met his eyes, and held his gaze while Galemir's defiance subsided. The man quailed and bent his head, staring at the deck.

"We will hold Umbar," Dragaer said at last. "But we will not do it here. See to your instructions."

"Yes, Captain," Galemir sagged in relief. But there was some spine in him yet, and as he turned away he paused, and said, "Captain? If we will hold it, but not here . . . forgive me, but I do not understand. How will we do that? Where are we going?"

Dragaer smiled. He looked north, to where the hills around the bay were just visible in the pre-dawn light. "There," he said. "We sail for Minas Tirith."

"_Minas Tirith?_" Galemir's mouth dropped open, his eyes wide. "But, Captain, you said – we cannot take it! No force could break the walls, and we don't have the strength for a siege –"

"No." Dragaer's gaze was abstract, turned inward. He saw again the vision in his cabin, the ethereal creature that hung limp and broken from the bonds over his bed, flaxen hair in tangled disarray, flesh torn and bleeding, but still breathing, still alive. His smile broadened.

"There will be no siege. They will open the gates, and invite us inside."

*~*~*

"Your Majesty," Captain Aelon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You must understand that this is highly irregular . . ."

"Will you do it?" Èowyn leaned forward, her eyes intent.

Aelon avoided her gaze. "I understand how you feel, my lady," he said. "But I assure you, Lord Faramir is not being mistreated. I'm sure that this is all just a . . . misunderstanding. When King Elessar returns –"

"Peace," Arwen said gently. "We know that you have done your duty, Captain Aelon, as well as any man could. We understand the pressure that you are under. What we are asking is unusual, but these are unusual circumstances. There's no need to answer immediately. Take your time to think about it."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Aelon looked relieved.

"Now will you do it?" Èowyn said. At a look from Arwen she subsided, chewing at her lip.

Arwen turned back to the Man who stood radiating tension in the center of the room. He had never set foot in the Queen's study that she could recall, and he was clearly unhappy about doing so now. She smiled, trying to put him at ease.

"Please, Aelon, do sit down. Would you care for a drink?"

"Thank you, Your Majesty, but no. I'll stand."

"Very well." Arwen took a breath, looking around the sunlit chamber for inspiration. She understood the Man's trepidation, but she had little time to comfort him. It was already late in the afternoon of the day after she and Èowyn had made their decision.

"You must know that King Elessar has not been himself of late. Faramir's arrest was only the culmination of a series of changes that have been developing for a long time."

"We are at war, Your Majesty." Aelon looked wary.

"Yes, and I agree that some changes are warranted under those circumstances." Arwen raised a hand to forestall Èowyn's protest. "I am certain that King Elessar has acted as he believes is best, to safeguard Gondor and her people. But, Aelon," she held the Man's gaze, "no Man, not even the King, can act alone and always be certain of being right. Elessar does what he thinks best, but when we, his loyal subjects, see things that do not make sense, or do not seem right, then we must question him. We have a _duty_ to question him, for his sake and Gondor's."

"Yes, my Queen." Aelon had his helmet in his hands, twisting the chinstrap between his fingers as he spoke.

Arwen waited. When the Man said nothing more she prompted him as kindly as she could. "You are still troubled."

Aelon averted his eyes. "There _are _spies in the Minas Tirith, Your Majesty. King Elessar cannot tell us all that he knows. He must protect Gondor."

"Who says that there are spies in Minas Tirith?" Èowyn asked. "Have you seen them, Aelon? Have you seen _any _evidence of them?"

The Captain shook his head. "My lady, I am only a soldier. My oath is to obey the King, not to judge him."

"But he has imprisoned your Steward!" Èowyn cried. "And now he has arrested Gimli – but there are no charges! Who else must suffer before you begin to question your orders?"

Aelon looked miserable. "Lady Èowyn, I understand how you must feel," he said again. "But Lords Faramir and Gimli are not suffering, I promise you. When King Elessar returns I am certain that we will learn why this was necessary, and when their innocence is proven they will be released. We must be patient for a little longer."

Èowyn sat back in her chair with a huff of disgust. Arwen sighed. "I know that this is difficult for you, Captain. It is painful for all of us. Even beyond the oaths that we have sworn, King Elessar has earned his people's loyalty these past four years. I merely ask you to consider what form true loyalty should take in a time of war. We have seen our friend hurt and we do not understand why. Our Steward has been imprisoned, but there is no evidence brought against him. At such a time, is it better to follow the King unquestioningly, or to challenge him?"

The helmet strap was fraying as Aelon pulled at it fretfully. "My Queen, you are far wiser than I. I would obey you, to the limits of my oath. But please, you cannot ask me to simply release the Steward and Lord Gimli. I have not the power."

Arwen closed her eyes for a moment. Her shoulders sagged. "I understand, Captain. Your devotion is admirable."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Aelon sounded relieved. At Arwen's nod he bowed low and retreated. He was nearly to the door when Arwen lifted her head.

"Captain Aelon!" He turned back, his hand on the door latch.

Arwen met his eyes. "There are many types of loyalty, Captain. Please remember that, and think about what we have said."

Aelon bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty. I will." He escaped.

Èowyn was drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. "That was a waste of time."

"We had to try," Arwen said. "Aelon is a good man. He may yet join us."

"Even if he does, it will be too late," Èowyn said. "Time is short, Arwen. We should have left this morning."

"The city gates are locked and the guards question everyone who seeks to pass," Arwen reminded her. "Alone, after dark and with an Elven cloak I might slip by. But in daylight there is no chance. They would recognize the Queen of Gondor, whatever disguise I wore. And it would not take long to discover you, and Faramir and Gimli as well." She sighed heavily. "In truth I do not relish the prospect of convincing Gimli to hide, however we smuggle him out of the city."

"We'll knock him unconscious if need be, and Faramir too," Èowyn said carelessly. "Tonight, then. But Arwen, we still must get past all the guards and free them from the cells!"

Arwen looked at her in surprise. "Free them from the cells? Oh, but my lady Èowyn, that is the easy part."

*~*~*

"The son's name, same as the father's! Durin was a Dwarven lord, deep and mighty were his halls. And when he had a son, he wouldn't name him Orin or Clous. No! Durin, Durin the Deathless he was!"

"Aargh!" Faramir rolled over on his bunk, clasping the pillow tightly about his ears. But no device of Man could shut out the full force of Dwarven song.

In the adjacent cell, Gimli drew a deep breath. "The son's name, same as the father's! Durin –"

"Enough! Enough!" Faramir threw back the pillow and sat up, clutching his head.

Gimli broke off in mid-verse. "Will you agree?"

"Gimli, I cannot," Faramir groaned. "It would be civil war –"

"DURIN WAS A DWARVEN LORD, DEEP AND MIGHTY WERE –"

"All _right, _all _right!_" Faramir got to his feet. "I agree!"

"You'll do it?"

"Yes," Faramir said wearily. "It might mean splitting Gondor's army, it might be civil war, it might be the end of the friendship between Gondor and Rohan and not least of all my own death as a traitor, but I will call the Council to investigate King Elessar's actions. I will give a full account of all that I saw in the Tower, both the absence of an enemy force and his threats toward Lord Legolas and myself, and I will assume the rule of Gondor while he is taken to Rivendell for healing."

"And you'll get that palantír away from him," Gimli prompted.

"Yes!" Faramir said. "Yes, I'll do whatever you like, just _stop singing that song!_"

"All right then." Gimli sounded insufferably smug.

Faramir sighed. He walked to his cell door and leaned his forehead against the bars. It was not just the song. Gimli's arrest had shaken him. It was clear that Elessar would not scruple to sacrifice those dearest to him. Gondor might survive the King's madness, but Èowyn and Arwen might not. One way or another he had to get them out of Minas Tirith.

"Of course it is a moot point at the moment," he observed. "As I am in here, and the guards loyal to me have been removed."

"Ah, well," said Gimli. "As for that . . ."

But before he could finish there was an echoing clang of a door swinging open, and a moment later the tramp of many booted feet in the passage.

A column of Men dressed in the livery of the King's Guard came to a halt outside Faramir's cell. Faramir raised his eyebrows, looking from one expressionless face to the next. "What's this?"

The escort parted to reveal two much more welcome figures in their midst. "Èowyn!" Faramir exclaimed, and then hastened to bow. "Queen Undómiel!"

Èowyn pushed past the burly guard. "Faramir, are you all right? Are they feeding you well? Are you warm enough?"

"Yes," he said, laughing. "Yes, _lacha nîn,_ of course." He was peripherally aware that Arwen had moved out of the narrow field of view accorded by the cell door. But the next moment he forgot everything else as he took in the full sight of his wife.

"Èowyn! What –"

"It's nothing –"

"Nothing!" he stared at her. "You should be in bed!"

"Don't be absurd," Èowyn said calmly. She rested a hand on the markedly low swell of her belly. "Ioreth said it would be days yet before the child is born."

"Days!" Faramir glanced at the surrounding guards and lowered his voice. "Is she certain? But, these things . . . she cannot predict it that accurately, can she? You cannot . . . schedule it?"

Èowyn laughed. Faramir felt himself blush. "No, my love, I have not much say in when it will happen. But –"

"Sergeant," Arwen's voice interrupted her as she addressed the guard. "I appreciate your attention to duty, but kindly give me some air. I assure you that your prisoner will not harm me."

Faramir craned his neck, but could not see what was happening. The Queen sounded exasperated. Èowyn glanced aside and then moved closer to him. "Ioreth said that I should avoid things that would upset me, but apart from that –"

"Things that would upset you?" Faramir repeated, his full attention returning to her at once. "Èowyn, you should not be here!"

"Neither should you!" she snapped. "Oh, Faramir, what have they done to you?"

Faramir blinked. But before he could speak Èowyn turned her head and called to the guards. "Open this door! Please!"

A solid looking Man with lieutenant's braid on his shoulder stepped forward, drawing a ring of keys from his belt. But Èowyn appeared not to see him. "Open it!" she cried again, and stamped her foot. "Oh, please, please, you cannot be so cruel as to keep me from him!"

The other guards were gathering around now, watching curiously. The lieutenant tried again to reach the door, but Èowyn threw herself against it, clutching Faramir's hands. "I cannot bear it! Oh my love, why are they so cruel to us?"

To Faramir's complete and lasting astonishment she burst into tears.

The lieutenant laid a hand on Èowyn's shoulder. "My lady," he said. "If you would just step aside I will open the door."

Èowyn sniffed loudly and moved out of the way. Faramir stepped back as the Man selected a large key from his ring.

"Oh," Èowyn said. They all turned to look at her. She was standing very still, her hand on her belly. Her tears had vanished. "Oh," she said again.

"Èowyn?" Faramir stomach did a slow roll.

The lieutenant stepped toward her, his keys still in his hand. "My lady? Are you well?"

"Yes," Èowyn said. Her voice was breathless. "Yes, I just – _oh!_"

The lieutenant took her elbow. "Galarond, run and fetch a healer. Turis, Frelan, find a carriage chair. We'll meet you at the entrance. Come, my lady."

"Wait!" Faramir pressed against the bars. "Take me with you! Èowyn!"

He thought she looked back at him, but the guards closed around her, blocking her from view.

They hurried away, but one of the retinue hesitated, looking back. "Your Majesty?"

"Yes, I'm coming," Arwen said. She strode past Faramir's cell.

"Queen Undómiel!" Faramir said. "Please, I must be with her!"

Arwen paused. "Lady Èowyn will be fine, I promise."

"No, wait!" Faramir cried. But she was already turning away, and a moment later the ring of the guards' footsteps had receded into silence.

Faramir swore and kicked the base of the cell door. That hurt his foot, and he swore again more loudly.

A chuckle came from the next cell. Faramir groaned. "Gimli, please," he said as civilly as he could manage. "Not now."

"I was only going to give you my congratulations," Gimli said. "You're a father, lad! I'd offer you a pipe, but . . ."

Faramir closed his eyes. Sure enough, there was the sound of flint striking, and a few moments later the scent of pipeweed wafted from the next cell. He wished once again that the guards had confiscated Gimli's pipe along with his weapons.

"Lord Gimli," he said again. "Unless you have something constructive to say –"

"As a matter of fact, I do." There was a clink of metal. Faramir opened his eyes.

"I was going to tell you before, but we were interrupted." Gimli continued. "Actually it was for the best. I thought we'd have to wait until tonight, but I've had a chance to discuss it with Queen Arwen and she tells me that the time is now."

"Time? What time?" Faramir said. "What are you talking about?"

There was a click, loud in the empty passageway, and then a metallic groan. Gimli stepped in front of Faramir's cell door.

Faramir blinked. His mouth was open. He closed it, started to speak, and stopped. He swallowed. "How?" he said faintly.

Gimli's eyes twinkled. In his left hand he held his pipe. In his right he held up a large key.

Faramir had not been so astonished since Legolas had presented his plan to gain access to the Tower. He sagged onto his cot as the strength fled from his legs.

"You took the key? _How?_" Even as he spoke he knew it was impossible. He had seen it in the lieutenant's hand as the Man had hustled Èowyn from the dungeon. Fleetingly he wondered why the Elves and Dwarves had not conquered Men long ago, if they could overcome their defenses so easily.

"It's only a copy," Gimli said. He inserted it into the lock and grunted with satisfaction as it clicked into place. "When Legolas lifted that ring from Aragorn's belt, I duplicated the Tower key for you, but I thought I might as well make a few others while I was at it. Just as a precaution, you understand."

"And you've had it all this time?" Faramir stood up as the door creaked open. "Why did you not –"

"Would you have gone with me before?" Gimli looked at him levelly. "After all your talk about a war?"

Faramir hesitated. "No," he admitted. "I would not have."

"No," Gimli said. "But now I've had the chance to talk sense into you, so it's time to start fixing some of the damage that Elessar's done."

"Hold a moment," Faramir said. His mind was whirling, and he felt sure that there were some clues that would click into place – Gimli's relatively peaceful arrest among them – if only he could have time to think. He seized upon one of the few concrete things that he knew. "Elessar will know. He has the palantír, he'll see –"

"Aye, he will. So where do you want to be when he returns? Where do you want your wife to be?"

"There are still the guards."

"You needn't concern yourself about them," Gimli said. "Your wife will have them nicely distracted about now."

"Èowyn?" Faramir shook his head. "But she's –"

"Yes, yes, how could I have forgotten," Gimli pulled him unresisting from the cell. "Let's get you out of here before Faramir the Second makes an appearance, shall we?"

*~*~*

Arwen decreed that Lady Èowyn was in no condition to travel to the Houses of Healing, and she would not hear of her returning to the Steward's chambers. Instead Èowyn was escorted to the royal suite, where she took residence in the King's own bed. Most of the citadel guard accompanied them, and Arwen kept them running to fetch various essential items from the kitchens, the apothecary's, the healer's, and so on.

The citadel was in an uproar, and the only places that escaped the flurry of activity were the empty guest rooms and the royal bedchamber itself. There Èowyn sat quietly, her hands folded over her stomach while a mixture of harried and curious servants and guards milled in the corridor outside.

Some order returned with the arrival of Ioreth, who took one look and dismissed half of the servants and all of the soldiers save for Èowyn's personal guard, who took up residence outside the door. Arwen retreated to the sitting room while the midwife entered the inner chamber.

She stood for a time at a western window, watching as the sun sank down toward a bed of gold and crimson clouds. When its lower edge just touched the towering mass she called her maid to her.

"Kaimil, please ask the guard to go to the Houses of Healing and fetch Lady Ioreth's workbasket. The healers will know which one she needs. Then I want you to go to the spice cellar. We shall need mint and chamomile tea."

"Your Majesty?" The girl's round face was a study in confusion. There was, after all, a full kettle hung over the sitting room fire. On the table there rested a large basket of teas and other supplies that Ioreth had brought with her.

"We need more," Arwen said firmly. "Please do as I ask now."

"Yes, my lady." Kaimil curtseyed obediently and departed. Arwen listened as she spoke with the guard, and then the pair's retreating footsteps sounded along the passage.

She counted to twelve and then went to the door. The corridor was empty. She slipped outside and turned toward the guest quarters. She had not walked more than a few paces, however, when she heard running footsteps. She paused, frowning, and looked toward a narrow servants' stair that branched off of the main corridor to her left. A moment later Faramir leaped up the last three steps and skidded to a halt before her.

Arwen took a step back, her hand going to her throat. "What –" she began.

Gimli thumped into the passage, breathing hard. "Will – you – stop!" he panted, and then froze as he caught sight of Arwen.

Arwen looked them up and down. They were covered in dust, Gimli was badly out of breath, and there were cobwebs in Faramir's hair. "What are you doing here?"

Faramir drew himself up. "Your Majesty, I beg your indulgence. I must see my lady Èowyn. Please. Afterward I will return to my cell, with no harm done –"

"You will do no such thing," Arwen said in exasperation. "We did not go through all the trouble to free you only to send you back again." She turned to Gimli. "I thought you were going to the guest chambers."

It was a strange thing to see a Dwarf look defensive. "I was!" Gimli said. "Everything was going according to plan, until his royal Stewardship here took it into his head to run off on his own."

Faramir was looking from one to the other of them in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"What would you have done if the guard were here?" Arwen said. "Or did you even think of that?"

"_I _said we should go to my rooms. But then we overheard a servant talking about Lady Èowyn being taken to the royal suite –"

"How is she?" Faramir said urgently. "Please, I must see her!"

"Your pardon, Queen Undómiel, Lord Faramir," a new voice broke in. Arwen whirled around. Ioreth stood in the open doorway behind her, watching them all avidly. "I see no harm in allowing Lord Faramir entrance, if I may say so. But I –"

Faramir made a noise in his throat. Èowyn had appeared behind Ioreth, barefoot and in a loose gown, her hair tumbling freely down her back. Faramir crossed the threshold in two strides and caught her in his arms, hugging her to his chest. She laughed and returned the embrace, turning to one side to accommodate the awkward bulge of her stomach.

"Yes," Ioreth said calmly, moving out of the way. "As I was saying, the lady Èowyn is not in labor."

"The pains must have stopped," Arwen said. "That does happen among the Edain, does it not?"

Ioreth met her gaze. The midwife's eyes twinkled cheerfully in her small walnut face. "Of course, Your Majesty," she said. "I am sure it is just as you say."

"In that case I propose that Lord Faramir and Lady Èowyn return to their chambers," Arwen said. "Later we will –"

"Your Majesty!" A young guard rounded the curve of the main stairwell and tore toward them, clattering to a halt before Arwen. He dropped to one knee, panting for breath. "I bring word from Captain Aelon!"

"You may speak," Arwen said. She was aware of Èowyn pulling Faramir away from the open doorway. She took a few steps further into the hall, so that the boy would turn his back to the chambers in order to face her. Gimli tensed nearby, but did not move.

"A party of Corsairs has requested entrance to the city, my lady," the boy gasped. "They are at the main gate now."

"_Corsairs?_" Arwen said. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." The boy looked up, and Arwen saw that despite his exertions his eyes were wide with fear. "Queen Undómiel, they have Lord Legolas!"

*~*~*

This was not how Arwen had envisioned their journey to the city gates. She and Èowyn had planned a surreptitious exit in guise of merchant wives whose husbands had overindulged that market day. It was a plausible story, for though the gates had shut at sunset the city was still crowded with farmers and hawkers who would make their slow way home after the taverns closed.

What they would have done next: go to Ithilien and raise an army to counter Elessar, challenge the Council to restrain him, capture him on his return and take him to Rivendell . . . she had not thought through very clearly. The important thing was that Faramir and Gimli would be out of harm's way. Her son would be safe.

Now all that had changed. Arwen rode through the twilit streets on a grey palfrey with Èowyn, Faramir and Gimli at her side. An escort of a dozen men-at-arms rode ahead and behind them. The citizens crowded the doorways and windows of the houses, staring wide-eyed as the procession passed.

She had initially wished to conceal Faramir and Gimli until they could be taken from the city. These Corsairs, whatever their purpose, did not change the danger that they were in. But it was all she could do to keep Gimli from rushing down to the gate alone when he heard that Legolas was there, and Faramir flatly refused to stay behind.

The citadel guards had been surprised at their Steward's appearance but chose not to argue when Arwen told them that he was free on the Queen's command. Arwen had little concern for them. The real test was in how Captain Aelon would react. She had no authority to countermand the King's orders, and he knew it. If he arrested Faramir and Gimli again there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

Aelon himself was standing in a recessed alcove next to the massive city gates. These were shut fast and reinforced with the interlocking steel of Gimli's portcullis. But a tiny side door was open at their base, and here Aelon stood in a pool of lamplight, deep in conversation with a tall Man at his side.

He turned as the party dismounted. His eyes widened as he beheld Faramir and Gimli, but he made a masterful recovery and focused his attention on Arwen.

"Queen Undómiel," he said, bowing low. "I am sorry to call you down here –"

"Where's Legolas?" Gimli broke in. His sharp eyes darted from Aelon to the tall, black-bearded Man dressed in a sailor's loose trousers and tunic, and then over the crowd of guards that encircled them. "Where is he?"

"If you refer to the Elf, he is outside," the Corsair said. He was handsome, with chiseled features and gleaming black eyes. A long scar ran from the corner of his mouth up to his temple, giving him a dangerous air.

He turned to Arwen. His heels clicked together as he bowed. "I am Dragaer. And you must be the Queen Undómiel. I have heard rumors of your beauty, but no tale could do justice to the vision I see before me." He had a pleasantly deep, gravelly voice, with a tinge of an accent that Arwen could not place.

Arwen's lips tightened. The flattery was typical of Men, but something in this Dragaer's smooth manner made her uncomfortable. She turned to Aelon. "Lord Legolas is outside the gate?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Aelon looked as distressed as she had ever seen him. "I sent for a healer, but he has not yet arrived."

"A healer?" Gimli frowned. "Is he hurt? Why haven't you brought him inside?"

"King Elessar's orders –" Aelon began, but Gimli was already pushing past the captain and through the narrow stone door behind him. This entrance was used on occasions when opening the mammoth main gates was unnecessary. The door was set in a curved extension of the outer wall, angled so as to be inaccessible to an attacker's battering ram. Arwen had to duck her head as she followed Gimli onto the broad paving stones outside the gates.

Twenty or so guards stood in a watchful ring around a small group of Corsairs. The pirates' weapons – cutlasses and a few long daggers – were piled next to the wall. Their horses were tethered a short distance away. A makeshift travois rested on the roadway.

Gimli made straight for the travois and its occupant. "We had to make do with what we had," Dragaer said apologetically behind them. "We made him as comfortable as we could."

"Where did you find him?" Faramir asked. Gimli had reached the construction of wood and canvas. He looked down at it for a long moment, and then dropped to one knee with a soft groan. Arwen was close behind him. Her breath caught, and she braced a hand on Gimli's shoulder.

Legolas' eyes were tightly shut. There was a waxy sheen to his pale skin, and the bones of his face stood out prominently. The Corsairs had covered him with a rough blanket, but it had slipped aside and Arwen could see a ring of purplish bruises around his neck. His chest rose and fell very faintly.

Gimli took Legolas' hand. "He's cold," he whispered. His voice fractured. "He's so cold."

"He was wandering along the seashore," Dragaer said. "I don't know how he came there – he was in bad shape, and we didn't get much from him before he collapsed. I'm sorry."

"Why did you not bring him to Dol Amroth?" Faramir asked. "It was closer, surely."

"In such a delicate matter I prefer to deal with the principals involved," Dragaer said. "Our relations with Gondor's lord to the south have been . . . strained, as you might appreciate."

"Queen Undómiel, a word if I may." Aelon was at Arwen's side. With an effort she dragged her attention to the Captain of the Guard.

"King Elessar's orders were that no stranger was to enter the city," Aelon said quietly. "We will take Lord Legolas to the Houses of Healing, of course, but what am I to do with these Corsairs?"

"We cannot send them away," Arwen said. "They may have saved Legolas' life."

"Yes, but," Aelon looked troubled. "We do not know their full intentions. I will need to question them. They could be spies, or –"

"Oh for Mahal's sake!" Gimli was on his feet, glaring at them. "You want to know what happened? Isn't it obvious?" His chest heaved as he struggled for control. "Do any of you _really _wonder who did this to him?"

There was a long silence. The guards shifted uncomfortably. Faramir had his arm around Èowyn's shoulders, holding her close. Dragaer looked from Gimli to Arwen, his eyes bright with curiosity.

"We will investigate further in the morning," Arwen said at last. "Now we must bring Legolas to the healer's. Aelon, our guests will stay tonight in the citadel, with an honor guard of course."

"But –"

"Now, please." Arwen said. She was trembling, and it took all her will to force back the tears that stung her eyes. _Aragorn was gone. If ever she had doubted it, now the evidence was laid before her. He was gone, and there was no bringing him back._

"But Queen Undómiel!" Aelon cried. "By the King's command I should have these men arrested, and Lords Faramir and Gimli as well!"

"Just you try it, laddie," Gimli rumbled.

Arwen dashed a hand over her eyes. She stood straight, her shoulders back, and faced the Captain with all the regal authority that she could manage.

"We spoke today about loyalty, Aelon," she said. "Look around you! _See _what the King has done! Where does your allegiance lie?"

The Man's mouth worked for a moment in silence. "King Elessar gave you command of the city," he said at last. "Will you claim the throne, and all the powers and authority thereof?"

Arwen held his gaze. She was cold and still, as a frost settled in her heart. "Will you support me if I do?"

Aelon swallowed hard. He lowered his eyes, and nodded. Arwen took a deep breath. This was the end, she thought. After this there could be no going back. When Aragorn returned – if he returned – he would be an outcast in his own country. He would have no power, no authority, and no rights. He would not be able to hurt them any more.

She looked at Faramir. There was anguish in his eyes, but he met her gaze and gave a small nod. At his side Èowyn was glowing with fierce determination.

_It should not be here,_ Arwen thought. _It should not be in the darkness, with only a few to give witness. There should be a ceremony, something . . ._

She was breaking inside, but her voice was clear and strong. "I do claim the rights, authority, and responsibilities of the throne that King Elessar has forfeited in his madness. I swear to serve Gondor to the utmost of my ability, to uphold her laws and to safeguard her people."

"All hail the Queen!" Aelon said. He knelt, and slowly the rest of the guard followed suit, and Faramir and Èowyn as well. After a moment Dragaer knelt down too, as did the rest of his men. Arwen looked at them all, and felt as if the emptiness would consume her.

The side entrance was too small to permit the travois to pass, or the horses. Aelon climbed the narrow stair to the upper level of the wall, and there was a groan of metal as the portcullis rose. The heavy iron locks slammed back, and six Men laboriously dragged the massive gate open.

They entered the city. The entrance way was crowded with onlookers who fell back as the guards pushed forward. The murmurs as they caught sight of the eight Corsairs sounded like the sigh of wind over the trees. Two of the guards carried Legolas' travois, with Gimli walking close by the Elf's side.

The gate closed behind them with a hollow thud that echoed in the stone passages of the city. Night fell over Minas Tirith.


	30. In Nightmares

"But among all these evils there is no record of any among the Elves that took another's spouse by force; for this was wholly against their nature, and one so forced would have rejected bodily life and passed to Mandos."

– J.R.R. Tolkien, _Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, _Morgoth's Ring

Chapter 29: In Nightmares

Gimli did not let go of Legolas' hand for the entire journey to the Houses of Healing. Even when they reached the healer's quarters he yielded his position only grudgingly. He paced the corridor outside the chamber, chewing his mustache and grumbling, as the physicians examined their patient within.

Faramir kept him company, only occasionally breaking off from his own pacing to stand by Èowyn's chair. He continually ran his hands through his hair, until his long locks stood up in tangled disarray. Arwen had invoked her experience in Lord Elrond's halls, as well as her authority as Queen, to gain entrance to the inner sanctum. Èowyn had attempted to do the same, but Faramir shot down this proposal. It would upset her, he said. So she sat, arms crossed above her bump, scowling fiercely at the floor.

None of them spoke. After a brief interrogation within the chamber, Aelon's men had escorted Dragaer and the rest of the Corsairs to quarters in the citadel. The remaining guards had taken up discreet positions outside the Houses of Healing. Only Legolas' friends remained to keep vigil, each alone with his own fears and speculations as the time dragged on.

After the end of the Fourth Age and approximately halfway into the Fifth, by Gimli's reckoning, the chamber door finally opened. Gimli halted in mid-stride, his heart quickening. Arwen stepped out into the corridor. The Queen's face was drawn, the circles under her eyes in stark contrast to her pale skin.

"Well?" Gimli said. "How is he? Can I see him?" He searched Arwen's face anxiously for some sign of good news.

Èowyn tried to rise, failed, and made it awkwardly to her feet by grasping Faramir's arm. Faramir's eyes were fixed on Arwen. "My lady?" he said.

Arwen took a deep breath. "I am afraid that Legolas' condition is very grave," she said. "His injuries –"

Gimli didn't wait for more. In a heartbeat he was past Arwen and into the room. The brilliant candlelight stung his eyes, and he hesitated, blinking to get his bearings. Legolas was stretched on a low bed beneath a window. The warped glass reflected wavering images of the room, for it was dark night outside. The window had been opened a fraction, but the smell of herbs and ointments was still close and thick in the enclosed room. A clutter of instruments, bandages, cloths, teas and suture supplies crowded a nearby table.

There were several Men in the room as well, healers in long white robes who made noises of protest as Gimli burst inside, but he paid them no heed. He crossed to Legolas' side and took the Elf's limp hand in his own.

"Cold," he muttered, and turned to where Arwen was leaning wearily against the doorpost, watching him. "He's still cold!"

Èowyn moved to Legolas' far side. She rested one palm against his forehead, the fingers of her other hand pressing the inside of his wrist. She frowned. Faramir was in a far corner, speaking with the chief healer in hushed tones. He straightened and faced the room.

"If I may," he said. "Perhaps we might have some time with our friend, and Lord Trypline will explain his condition to us."

Reluctantly the gathering of nurses and physicians dispersed. When they were alone Trypline, a tall Man with watery, fast-blinking eyes cleared his throat.

"Lord Legolas is seriously ill," he said. "He is dehydrated, and the bruising to his neck and body appear to be recent injuries sustained in a physical altercation."

"He's been in fights before," Gimli snapped. "That wouldn't do this to him."

Trypline turned an injured gaze upon him, blinking faster than ever.

"Gimli," Arwen murmured. Gimli ground his teeth together, but subsided.

"There is also damage to the tissues of his throat and sinuses," Trypline said, warming to his subject. "While we cannot be certain until he wakes, it appears to be consistent with the introduction of an irritant to his breathing passages."

Gimli blinked. "Could you say that again in Common Tongue?"

"He was drugged," Faramir said. His eyes were hooded. "Wasn't he."

"Ahem, yes, I believe so," Trypline said. He coughed. "Of course, we do not yet know what type of substance was used, but one might hypothesize a derivative of the poppy family –"

"Never mind that," Gimli growled. A low roaring filled his ears. "What else?"

Trypline coughed again. "I do not believe it is necessary to go into every detail now."

"Don't you give me that!" Gimli shouted. "I've seen Legolas come through a lot worse than what you're describing, and he wouldn't just collapse, not like this, not for those reasons! What aren't you telling us? What happened to him?"

Trypline fell silent. After a moment Arwen stepped forward. "Legolas' tunic was missing," she said.

"I saw that –" Gimli began, but Arwen continued. "The Corsair told us that it was hanging off him when they found him. It was torn by hand."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," Gimli muttered, but only to himself. His mouth was dry. He had a sick sense of where Arwen was going with this.

"He was dressed in sailor's trousers when we examined him," Arwen said. "I asked Dragaer where his leggings were. They had cut them off to treat his wounds, but he showed them to me, as well as Legolas' small clothes." She looked aside, and Gimli followed her gaze to where a pile of cloth lay heaped in one corner. The fine Elven material was stained dark with blood.

Èowyn made a small choked noise in her throat. Faramir took her arm. "If you will excuse us, Your Majesty," he said. "It is late, and my lady Èowyn needs rest."

Arwen nodded. For once Èowyn made no protest as Faramir led her from the room.

Gimli shook his head. He knew what Arwen was saying, but his mind refused to process it. A white haze filled his vision, and Arwen's words came as if from far away.

"He has been grievously hurt," Arwen continued. "Both in the injuries you see and . . . inside. He is wounded both in his flesh and in his mind."

"But he'll be all right," Gimli said. "He's strong – he's immortal, for Mahal's sake! He'll get better."

Arwen looked at him, and for an instant the haze cleared and Gimli saw all the hurt and rage and sorrow in her eyes, more expressive than ever a mortal's could be. In that moment he wanted to run, to escape, to be far away so that he would not have to hear what came next. But he could not move.

"Gimli," she said gently. "Legolas was raped. He is dying."

*~*~*

Faramir was waiting when Arwen finally climbed the stairs to the royal suite. She nodded to him, but did not speak. The guard saluted and stood aside as Arwen entered, and she made no protest when Faramir followed her over the threshold.

Within the sitting room a serving girl was pouring tea. Her eyes widened as she saw the Steward, but at a signal from Arwen she curtsied and left, leaving the door cracked behind her for propriety's sake.

Faramir stood in the center of the hearthrug, feeling uncertain. He could not sit down without the Queen's invitation, but thus far Arwen seemed hardly aware of his presence. He watched as she threw back the heavy drapes of one window. She pushed the glass open, allowing a rush of cool spring air to flood the room.

"Elessar would go mad if he saw me now," Arwen remarked. Faramir made a non-committal sound – he was not certain if she was speaking to him, or to herself. The Queen pulled a light chair close to the window and settled herself in it, bracing her feet against the open window's sash like a schoolgirl.

She waved a hand. "Do sit down, Faramir, and bring us some tea if you would."

Faramir took refuge in arranging the tray of cakes and the small teapot on its spider by Arwen's side. But soon there was nothing left to do, and he sat stiffly in a chair angled so that he could see her face.

"Your Majesty," he began. "We must summon the Council tomorrow. They will have to approve your claim to the throne. With Captain Aelon's support I think they will, but there is still the matter of your lineage. There are some who will oppose any candidate who is not of Númenorean blood."

Arwen sat quietly, cradling a fragrant cup in her hands. Her eyes had an abstract look. "How is Lady Èowyn?"

Faramir blinked. "She is well, my lady. It was . . . upsetting, for all of us, but she was sleeping when I left her."

"Good." Arwen sighed. "I hope that you will forgive the ruse we played on you. At the time it seemed the best option available, and Èowyn did enjoy her part."

"Of course," Faramir said diplomatically. He planned to have words with his wife about 'her part' and the damage it had done to his psyche, but now was not the time.

Arwen was silent for a while. She seemed pensive. Then she stirred herself and looked at Faramir.

"You should know that I am with child."

Faramir's jaw dropped. It was a moment before he could speak. "I am . . . that is wonderful news, my lady. May I offer my congratulations?"

Arwen gave a small smile. "You may. So, you see, lineage will not be a concern. My son will inherit Elessar, and I shall be his regent."

"I see." Now that he looked at her, Faramir could see the looseness of the Queen's robes, the swell where they draped over her belly. He wondered how he had not noticed it before.

"That is indeed good news," Faramir managed, recovering somewhat. "If it is a boy –"

"He is," Arwen said. She was gazing at the window again.

Faramir didn't press the matter. "In any case the Council will recognize it," he said.

Arwen nodded. Her lips pressed tightly together. Faramir sat back in his chair, his mind whirling. He started to speak, and then stopped. Arwen's shoulders were shaking. Her eyes closed. A gleam of moisture slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it quickly away.

Faramir swallowed. "My lady?"

"All this time," Arwen said. "All these months, I was afraid that Elessar would . . ." she trailed off. Drawing a shaky breath, she wiped her palms over her eyes. "I was afraid that he would see the child as a threat. That he would suspect me, or . . ."

Faramir leaned forward. "Given his behavior this past year it was not an unreasonable fear."

"No," Arwen sighed. "But now we are doing that of which he would accuse us. Conspiring together, using his son to usurp his throne."

"We are not," Faramir said. "It is as you said before. Elessar has forfeited the crown. He is mad – oh, I would give anything that it were not so, but it is. It is. We have all seen his behavior these past months and now Legolas –"

"We do not know that he is responsible for that."

Faramir fell silent. Arwen avoided his gaze, keeping her eyes fixed on the darkened window. The lead panes reflected the candlelit room over and over again, the tiny broken images rippled by the glass. Faramir felt a strange sense of dislocation, as if the glass were true and it was the world they were in that was distorted beyond all recognition. Somewhere on the other side there was the normal world where they belonged, where Legolas was whole and Aragorn had never gone to war and he and Arwen were not having this conversation.

"It is possible," he said at last. "Perhaps the Haradrim have truly raised an army, unseen by Imrahil's spies. Perhaps they engaged Elessar in a battle of which we have not heard. Perhaps Legolas was captured, and escaped or was ransomed and instead of returning to the army he made his way to the seashore alone."

"Enough." Arwen spoke with such quiet vehemence that Faramir broke off, ashamed. "Do not mock me. It is not so strange that I would hope that my husband were innocent of this – this abomination. To force oneself upon another – Elbereth! And Aragorn was raised in Imladris! Do you know what that means? Can you conceive of the horror, the shame, the _sickness_ of that violation for an Elf? Do you truly believe he could be capable of that?"

Faramir closed his eyes. "I know very little of the Elves, my lady, but it is a horror among us as well. You have known Aragorn longer than any of us, and you have been closer to him than any other. Just days ago you spoke of darkness in him . . . now, do you truly believe that he could _not_?"

It was a long time before Arwen next spoke. "What do you intend to do?"

"There will be a trial," Faramir said. "When Elessar returns. We will investigate every possibility. If he is innocent or – or not, we will know."

*~*~*

It was quiet. A candle burned low upon the bedside table, its wax mounded high on one side and cascading in a molten train over its brass holder. Gimli had thrown the window open wide, and the curtains fluttered in the night breeze. He sat on a chair drawn close to the bed, his cloak huddled over his shoulders. It was yet spring, and the air was cold.

The nurse had remonstrated with him about the open window: her patient would catch chill, she said. Gimli ignored her. Healers came and fussed about and made noises at him, but after awhile they went away again. Gimli did not know why, and he didn't care. His guard had sensibly removed himself from the vicinity some time ago. They were alone.

Gimli sat and held Legolas' hand. Occasionally he would breathe on the icy fingers, and chafe them between his palms, but mostly he just held it. Legolas' eyes were closed, the lids a bruised color against his waxy skin. The healers had undone his braids, and his hair streamed over the pillows and down his shoulders. One errant lock fell over his forehead, brushing his cheek. Gimli reached to move it aside, but drew his hand back without touching it.

Legolas wore a white tunic that covered his chest and arms, but did not quite conceal the ring of purplish bruises around his neck. His wrists were bandaged. The healer had inspected them before retiring, and Gimli had seen the deep abrasions that lay under those wrappings.

Someone was going to _pay_ for that.

Gimli's heart was full of vengeance, though he quailed to think too closely on who exactly might be responsible. Dwarves did not lightly surrender oaths of fealty, or love.

But in his mind's eye he saw again every look, every touch: every strange and disturbing act that he had witnessed in the time since he and Legolas had arrived at Minas Tirith. His fingers tightened around his friend's.

"Well I told you so," he said into the stillness. "Didn't I? I knew you'd get into trouble. But you never listen to me. Too stubborn, that's what you are, and too bloody proud for your own good. You talk about protecting Arwen – and who was going to protect you, huh? Saying how dangerous Aragorn's become, and how something has to be done – well I thought of something! 'Get the bloody palantír away from him,' I said, 'and lock him up until he learns some sense.' But nobody listened. 'Oh no, he's the King, we haven't the authority, we haven't any evidence.' Bollocks. I knew what was best – and don't you be trying to deny it, Legolas, I did know and I told you more than once. Where did it get us, huh? Aragorn's off in the desert somewhere and Faramir's practically got a noose around his neck and Arwen's fit to collapse and you're hurt and what was the point of it all? What was the _bloody point?_"

Gimli rose to his feet, pacing in his agitation. "Yes, he's your friend, I know that. But he's my friend too. And who are you to decide that I have to choose him over you, huh? Who are you to tell me it's for the greater good – what good? Where's the good in _any _of this? You're dying! And for what? To bring him back? Well I don't see him, Legolas. All I see is a damn fool Elf who can't be bothered to _listen_ when his friends tell him something _important._"

He turned at the far end of his circuit, shaking his finger at the limp form on the bed. "Did you even think about what it all meant? Aragorn? That blasted rock? The way he _looked _at you? 'Oh no, Aragorn would never do anything to hurt us.' Yes, all right, _Aragorn _would not. But he isn't Aragorn any more! He bloody well tried to _kill _Faramir! Yes he did! And don't you give me any nonsense about him stopping on his own, you _know _he would have done it if you hadn't been there! Faramir himself told us, Aragorn . . . hurt . . . you."

Gimli stopped. There was a tight, hot ache in the center of his chest. "He did," he whispered. "Mahal, Legolas, what did he do to you?"

He walked back to the bed and took Legolas' hand. "I'll kill him," he muttered. "I'll damn well kill him the next time I see him."

His shoulders sagged. He hoisted himself back into the chair and hooked the heels of his boots behind its rungs. "I don't suppose I mean that," he said after awhile. "Or maybe I do. Maybe you'll just have to try to stop me, eh?"

He cast a look at Legolas from beneath lowered brows. The Elf had not stirred. The lock of hair was still hanging over his cheek, fluttering now and again as the breeze stirred it.

Gimli sighed. "I'm sorry, Legolas. I didn't mean all that. I just . . . I don't know what to do. I'm not a healer. I don't know anything about Elves. And they tell me you're . . ." he broke off, blinking hard.

"It's not like you're that badly hurt!" he burst out. "I've seen you handle worse. There was the Balrog, right? And you came through Helm's Deep all right, and Dunharrow. Remember? You were at the Black Gate, for Mahal's sake! You can't have come through all that just to give up now! You can't."

He dashed a hand across his eyes. "If you die now it'll be proof of everything the Dwarves have ever said about Elves," he said. "Flighty, weak, insubstantial creatures, that's what you are. Can't even lift a proper axe, much less wield one. And that bow of yours? Kindling, that's all it's fit for. A Dwarven child would be ashamed to own shoddy equipment like that. And what about this vaunted Elven superiority, huh? You're supposed be to immortal! You're supposed to have all this control! And now you're _dying?_ It just goes to show, Elves are all façade and no foundation. Never trust an Elf!"

His chest hitched. He looked down, rubbing his thumb over the back of his friend's hand. "Wake up, Legolas," he whispered. "Please? Please wake up."

He cast about, trying to think of something else that might goad Legolas to action. He knew little of Elves, it was true, but he knew a good deal about Legolas. Under normal circumstances that crack about his bow would have had the Elf on his feet and with a knife in his hand before Gimli could blink. But now there was only silence.

The steady breeze from the window was making him shiver. The air was just cold and sweet enough to bring out the imp in his friend. It had been on a night like this shortly after the War that he had seen Legolas go for a run across the rooftops of Minas Tirith, laughing when his mortal friends remained on the ground. Ale had little effect on him, but he could get drunk on springtime.

Gimli smiled. He started to tell Legolas of this memory, but stopped. The smile faded from his lips. Legolas was paler than ever: only the faint rise and fall of his chest gave any indication that he was still alive.

He wondered how an Elven healer would handle this. He thought back to what little he had observed of Elrond's house in Rivendell. Lots of fresh air, at least he had that. Aragorn had used athelas when he tended the wounded after Pelennor, but none of the healers seemed to have it, and Arwen had not suggested it. Perhaps it was the wrong season? Or maybe that fool rhyme was right and only mentally unstable Númenoreans with delusions of grandeur could use it. What more? How else would you tend to an Elf?

"Well I'm not going to sing to you," Gimli said aloud. "So you can get that idea out of your head right now."

He chewed at his mustache. There was another way to reach Legolas, he knew. He'd seen the Elves do it before, when they'd journeyed with the Hobbits for a time after the War. He'd experienced it himself, to some degree, when Lady Galadriel had questioned them in Lothlórien. But he'd never initiated the sharing of minds that Elves did. He wasn't even sure if he could.

He wished that Elrond were here, or Galadriel, or Aragorn – he broke off that line of thought immediately. There was no point in wishing for what could not be. And if Aragorn could do it, then so could he. Legolas himself had said so, on that long-ago day in the stables. _It is not something that I have ever tried to explain to a mortal. Nor something I have shared with any, save for two._

"All right then," Gimli muttered. "I'll give it a try – and don't laugh, I've never done this before. Why you have to be so much trouble . . . fool Elf, I don't know why I bother . . ."

He closed his eyes. He thought back to the woods of Lothlórien. It had been during the Fellowship's time there that he and Legolas had finally put aside the last of the suspicion and mistrust between them, and their nascent friendship had grown into full strength. They had spent days walking the shaded paths, exploring the river and the forest, and talking.

They had talked about everything, from the important to the trivial, from Frodo's Quest to their hopes for after the War ended to their favorite hunting grounds. Gimli had described the_ Khazad-nâla_, when a young Dwarf went alone with only a flint and a pickaxe to excavate the deepest part of his family's mine.1 Legolas had unbent enough to tell some tales of his childhood in Mirkwood. And inevitably they had spoken of the Elvenking's capture of Thorin's party, and the siege of the Lonely Mountain.

Unlike their previous discussions of the subject, this time there were no hard accusations, no acrimony. Gimli recounted his father's tale of the Dwarves' captivity and escape, both the good and the bad. Legolas, who had actually been at the Battle of the Five Armies, described the Woodelves' efforts to rebuild Laketown, and Thranduil's fear that the dragon gold would attract further agents of the Enemy.

At this point Gimli had looked up at his companion and grinned. "I'll be a laughing-stock back home, but I'd swear at times you almost talk sense, for an Elf. This forest must be affecting me."

Legolas smiled back. "That may be, for it is certainly affecting me as well. I would venture that Dwarves are not so different from other mortals that I have known."

He looked thoughtful. "Would you be willing to try something?"

Gimli shrugged. That afternoon Pippin had told the Lothlórien Elves about the Fellowship's trial on Caradhras, and the role that the miruvor of Rivendell had played in saving them. Their hosts had risen to the challenge beautifully and given them all flasks of Lothlórien cordial to sample. Gimli rather liked the drink, and finished off both his and Legolas' portions during their conversation. He was in an expansive mood.

"All right, but you can't go locking me in any dungeons or root cellars or whatever you want to call them. I mean it."

Legolas laughed. "Agreed."

He leaned forward and touched Gimli's shoulder. Gimli looked up in surprise. His eyes met the Elf's, and locked there, transfixed. Whatever query he had intended to make died unspoken. In that moment Legolas looked completely alien, beyond anything of Gimli's experience. He seemed at once both ancient and ageless, and his eyes were pools fathoms deep.

Gimli felt himself falling forward into those depths, exposed, as if every thought he had ever had was laid plain for the other to see. But Legolas' gaze did not pierce him as the Lady Galadriel's had done. In fact Gimli had the dim sense that the Elf was equally vulnerable, that if he tried he might read Legolas' secrets as well. And the Elf knew this, and offered himself up freely, though he took nothing from Gimli.

Gimli in turn was tempted – there were depths within Legolas, he sensed, that would never be revealed upon the surface. But pride overcame even his curiosity: if the Elf could resist this opportunity to delve into the mind of his former enemy, then Gimli would resist as well. So their minds touched to the barest possible extent, like soap bubbles skimming across each other's surface, and withdrew. But they were not left unchanged.

In an instant it was over. Gimli blinked, and drew a shuddering breath. He was trembling. Legolas sat back. His eyes looked as they had always done.

Gimli found his voice. "What in the name of the seven fathers was _that?_"

Legolas seemed shaken, but he made an attempt at lightness. "There, you see. We are not so different after all." He gave a hesitant smile. "Elvellon."

They did not speak of it to the others, or indeed to each other. But something had changed. Gimli found that, as madding as Legolas was, he could more easily understand the Elf's perspective, and often he could predict how he would react to any given situation. Conversations that had previously degenerated into insults now gave rise to greater insight and understanding between them. And though Gimli tried to ignore it, he was aware that the bond they had made lingered. It was sometimes stronger, sometimes fainter, but always there.

It was that connection that he sought now. He visualized a path through the trees of Lothlórien, wending into the depths of his own mind. As he journeyed the path grew darker, sloping downward. The soft drift of leaves gave way to solid rock, and without his noticing the trees grew closer together, their trunks and branches merging until they formed a tunnel in the darkness. He was treading the familiar half-lit shafts of the small mine where he had grown to adulthood.

He had acquired a torch, though he did not remember how. Its uncertain light cast flickering shadows that leered at the corner of his eye, taking on the shape of creatures that had haunted his childhood dreams. Orcs and goblins slavered around him; werewolves crouched just out of sight, ready to spring. With every step the path grew steeper, and the walls loomed away into the darkness, glistening and dripping with moisture as they had never done in reality.

Worst of all were the horrors known to his adult mind. The dead crept around him, icy fingers brushing his skin. He could see them now, just as Legolas had described at Dunharrow. Pale shades in armor gleamed in the shadows, tall spears with ragged pennants that streamed behind as their bearers swept toward him.

Instinctively he reached for his axe, but it was gone. He froze as the ghostly cavalry bore down on him, empty-eyed knights' helms cresting the moonlit ripple of manes, silver-edged weapons drawn by skeletal hands that seemed suddenly all too real. They swept over and past him in a flood of ice, crushing him beneath their hooves. He was drowning in the freezing cold, he could not breathe – they were gone.

Gimli whipped around. The passage was empty. His mouth was dry, and his heart hammered in his chest. It took some minutes for him to catch his breath. When he did he found that his fear had been supplemented by a much more familiar emotion: anger.

"This is stupid," he said, though his fingers gripped the torch so tightly that they were beginning to cramp. "It's my mind, isn't it? Well I say the door or whatever you call it is right here."

It was a door. It appeared quite literally in front of him, a slatted wooden structure of the sort his father had used to cover over mineshafts. It seemed a flimsy thing here, with the terrifying visions all around him.

In the spirit of experimentation Gimli lifted the door's latch. It was locked. He shook it, rattling the door in its frame.

It occurred to Gimli that ordinarily this portal would have no need to be heavily sealed. It was a link to Legolas, wasn't it? And though he was loathe to admit it, he had grown closer to the Elf than to any other. So he might have ignored their bond, but he never would have blocked it off. Only now was it surrounded by all the terrors of which his mind could conceive.

Gimli was not given to being overly imaginative. Dwarves were pragmatic creatures, and in any case the _Khazad-nâla _tended to squelch the inclination toward fantasy. No one who has spent days alone in a cramped, dark and echoing tunnel has much patience left for imaginary demons.

If his mind were now summoning every frightening thing of which he had ever seen or heard it was because there was in fact something there to fear. And he had a good idea of where it was coming from.

He swallowed. "Sorry, Legolas," he said. "You should have learned by now that you can't scare me off that easily." He kicked open the door. Wood splintered as the latch snapped, the crossbar that had locked it breaking in two.

He had thought the touch of the dead was cold. It was nothing to the freezing gale that now assaulted him. Gimli gasped and turned his head away. The bitter wind lashed his face, flattening his beard and stinging his skin. His torch streamed behind him and went out.

Keeping his head down, his eyes screwed almost shut, Gimli pushed one foot forward past the threshold. The wind rose to a screaming pitch, so that Gimli had to lean his full weight forward in order to take the next agonizing step. The breath was torn from his lungs, his eyes were streaming tears that froze upon his skin, but he dragged his leaden boot past the doorpost and stood fully on the other side.

Instantly the wind cut off. Gimli staggered off balance in its wake and dropped his empty torch. With an effort he straightened up, wiping his eyes.

If he had ever given thought to how he might metaphorically picture Legolas' mind, this wasn't it. A forest glade, he might have said, or perhaps a seashore. But not this.

The space was vast, cold, and empty. Darkness pressed upon Gimli from all sides, and what sense he had of the enormity of the place came from the chill currents in the air, the hollow sound of his footfalls. He called Legolas' name, and the echoes reverberated into the distance. They took a long time to fade to silence.

Gimli walked. He strained his eyes to the utmost, but there was not the slightest hint of light. So he relied on the feel of the air, and the occasional vocalization, to tell him of his surroundings. It was not long before he realized that however much he walked the distant walls were not getting any closer. There was no end to the void.

He stopped. His teeth were chattering. "This is getting ridiculous. Legolas, if you can hear me –"

Something – a sound, a change in the feel of the air behind him – made him turn. A heavy mass swept past his face, missing him by inches. Gimli leaped back. "_Kheled gunud!"2_

A light appeared in the darkness.

The diffuse glow illuminated a massive cave troll bearing down on him, already lifting its club for another swing. Gimli scrambled backward, but there was no time to run. He shut his eyes as the club smashed down . . .

Nothing happened. After a bit Gimli cautiously opened one eye, then the other. The troll was gone. Slowly he straightened up, expecting at any moment to feel the fatal blow. He turned in a circle. He was alone. The light pooled around him, fading to darkness in the far distance.

Gimli released a long breath. "All right, then," he said. "Legolas, I –"

A gigantic spider leaped down at him. The thing's body was larger than Gimli's, with legs that arched above his head, but it moved hideously fast. He had one horrified glimpse of multiple glistening eyes, and then it came at him, driving wicked fangs toward his throat. It struck him in a rush of air, and was gone.

Gimli staggered, clutching at his chest and neck, but he was unhurt. His heart was pounding and his muscles trembled in the aftermath of adrenalin.

"Stop that!" he yelled. "I'm not going away, Legolas, and I'm not giving up, so just stop it!"

His voice echoed and died away into silence. Gimli glared around him. "You're here, aren't you? Of course you are – this is your stupid head, isn't it? All right then. I'm getting close to something important, otherwise you wouldn't be fighting me so hard. So . . . come on then. Show yourself. Let me help you."

Still there was nothing. Gimli stood still and thought for a moment, his breath pluming before him in the freezing air. "Hold just a minute – I made the light, didn't I? I thought "light," and there it was. So . . . this might be your mind, but I'm not powerless here. I want my axe."

Something solid pressed against Gimli's back. He reached behind him and touched the smooth wood of his battleaxe's shaft. He adjusted the familiar weight against his shoulders and felt immediately better.

"Good. Now let's be seeing you."

A figure appeared, curled upon the floor at the edge of the light. Its back was to Gimli, but he saw the white-gold fall of its hair. He started toward it.

A horde of Orcs rushed out of the darkness at him, swords upraised. Gimli set his feet and unslung his axe, but at his first swing the entire band vanished. He stumbled off balance at the lack of resistance and swore. "Drat it, Elf, either fight properly or don't fight at all! I've had enough of this!"

He had scarcely started forward again when a line of Elven archers appeared, longbows drawn and fixed upon him. Gimli stared at them. The Elves were clad in the green and brown of Mirkwood, and each one's eye was fixed unwaveringly down the length of his arrow at Gimli. The arrow tips glittered. They looked sharp and solid and very, very real. He could hear the creak of the bows under tension.

Gimli swallowed. "I don't know if you can hurt me here, Legolas, but if you can then you'd better do it, because I won't stop otherwise."

He walked forward. The Elves adjusted their stances as he came toward them, turning to keep their arrows trained on his chest. Tension knotted Gimli's neck and shoulders, and his knees were watery. He held his breath, expecting at every moment the pain of the arrows piercing him.

He reached the line of archers. They parted, falling back as he passed through. Then they were gone.

Gimli released a long breath. He was shaking. But the huddled form was now only a few feet away. He took a step, and stopped in his tracks.

The Elvenking of Mirkwood barred his path. Thranduil had been imposing enough after the War when Gimli had stayed in his halls with Legolas – and at that time Gimli had the impression that he was trying to be hospitable. Now he was forbidding, resplendent in royal garb of green and white with a crown of holly upon his golden hair. A long sword was belted at his hip. He seemed taller than Gimli remembered.

"Go back." The King's voice was unmistakably the same: deep, quiet, and with an authority that was used to being obeyed.

Gimli steeled himself to meet Thranduil's eyes. "No. He is my friend."

"He does not want you. Go now, and leave him in peace."

"I am not going to leave him to die!"

"That is not for you to decide," Thranduil said. "You cannot know what horror has driven him here, or what it would cost him to return. Do not ask it of him. If he is your friend, then let him go."

Gimli looked away. Tears pricked his eyes, and he shoved them roughly aside. "You Elves have a damned strange idea of what it means to be a friend."

"You have no idea of what you've done," Thranduil said. "Few mortals are ever privileged to bond with one of the Eldar. And now you have forsaken the trust that Legolas showed you, and trespassed upon his mind without permission. Did you think that the warnings were for nothing? He could have killed you a dozen times over, but you stand here unharmed. This though you perpetrate the worst violation of all, to enter his mind and tear from him even the last escape of death – _that _is what friendship means to an Elf."

Gimli felt stunned. _He _had committed the worst violation? What did that mean? He shook his head. Whatever it meant, he could not think about it now. There was a job to be done.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I don't mean to hurt Legolas . . . but I can't let him die. Not while I'm still living. I guess that's what friendship means to a Dwarf."

He walked around the King and knelt at Legolas' side. The Elf was clad in a pale linen tunic that barely covered his hips. His legs were drawn up close to his chest as he lay curled upon the freezing ground. He was shivering.

Gimli laid a hand on the Elf's shoulder. "Legolas? It's me. I've come to take you home."

He slid his arm under Legolas' back, pulling the Elf against him. Legolas' tunic gaped open as he did so, and Gimli saw that the collar was torn, exposing the Elf's chest and ribs. His stomach clenched.

He kept his voice gentle. "Come on lad. You have to wake up now."

Legolas' head lolled back. His hair spilled over Gimli's shoulder and down his arm. Gimli shifted his weight, awkwardly cradling the Elf against his chest. "Legolas, please. Let's go now."

Legolas' chest rose as he breathed more deeply. His eyelashes fluttered, and for a moment his eyes met Gimli's before closing again.

"That's it," Gimli said encouragingly. "Wake up. You're safe now. I've got you."

Legolas moaned. He blinked again, and his eyes seemed to come into focus. He spoke in a bare whisper. "Gimli?"

"Yes!" Gimli could have shouted for joy, but he managed to keep his voice down. "You're all right. You're going to be fine."

"Gimli?" Legolas struggled to sit up, frowning. The space around them was growing lighter, Gimli realized. He could see the distant walls clearly now. No longer black, they were translucent as milky glass. Vague shapes stirred in the glacial depths.

"Where –?"

Gimli chuckled. "Well you'd know that better than me, lad. And if you could get us out of this place I'd be much obliged to you."

Legolas closed his eyes. "The sea," he murmured. "I was . . . no. No . . . it hurts. Please. No! No!"

His voice rose higher in panic. Not knowing what to do, Gimli patted his arm. "There, it's all right. You're safe. Legolas?" He looked around nervously. The shapes in the walls were more distinct now, moving toward them.

Legolas' eyes flew open. "_No!_" he screamed. "_Daro! Aragorn!_"

He bucked wildly, twisting out of Gimli's grasp. At the same moment the figures around them crystallized and broke from the enclosing walls, crashing down upon them. Gimli had a confused glimpse of towering, menacing forms of Men, and then all his senses were assaulted at once.

He smelled the salt air of the sea, sharper and more clearly than he had ever known it before. His eyes too were impossibly acute, so that as the Man bore down on him he saw every hair upon his chin, every grain of dirt ground into his skin. There was something familiar about him, about the long scar that cut through his neatly trimmed beard. But he was huge, dark and powerful beyond the capacity of any Man in reality, and before Gimli could sort past the distortion to see who he really was the features changed, and he became Aragorn.

Aragorn stood over him, but this was an Aragorn who Gimli had never seen, had never imagined could exist. He recognized him – indeed he felt that he knew him better than he had ever done before – but something was far wrong. The clear grey of Aragorn's eyes had bled to black, and a cruel smile twisted his lips. He looked down on Gimli and smirked.

Hands closed on Gimli from behind, wrenching his arms, tearing at his clothes. He fought madly – but a weight crushed him down, and his wrists were tied, the rope cutting deep into his flesh. He cried out, and in that instant pain lanced through him, deeper and more agonizing than any wound he had ever known before.

He was betrayed, ripped apart, wrenched open and violated to the deepest part of his being, and his body could contain but a fraction of the agony that engulfed him. His throat tore with his screams, and all around him the walls shattered and the world came crashing down in icy shards, and the smell of the sea was drowning him.

Gimli jolted upright, breathing hard. He was drenched in sweat and shivering. He stared around him, trying to get his bearings. He was sitting in his chair by Legolas' bed, the candle had burned into a pool of wax and the sky outside the open window was thick with stars.

Legolas groaned. Instantly Gimli's attention was on him. The Elf turned his head, and one bandaged hand came up and pushed back the lock of hair that had fallen over his cheek.

He struggled to sit up, blinking. "Gimli?"

Gimli swallowed, trying to slow his frantic heartbeat. What had happened back there? Had he truly been in Legolas' mind? How? And if so, if what he had experienced was even a hint of what Legolas had gone through . . .

"I'm here," he said hoarsely.

Gradually Legolas' eyes came to focus on him. He stared at Gimli for a long moment, and then he rolled aside and was violently sick.

* * *

1 _Khazad-nâla_: Khuzdul. Literally "the path of the Dwarves." Intended as the name of a coming-of-age ritual.

2 _Kheled gunud_: Khuzdul. Literally "glass of excavation," as near as I can make it out. The intention is to refer to a source of light that would be used in a mine where the air is too thin to waste for constantly burning torches. The light could be called upon when a Dwarf had an urgent need to see something, hence Gimli's instinctive yell in the context of the story.

The Dwarvish used in this story is only my best attempt based on what few sources I could find, and it is by no means authoritative. Tolkien was not kidding when he said that it was a secret language.


	31. The Awakening

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain.

– William Shakespeare, _Richard III_

Chapter 30: The Awakening

Gimli held back Legolas' hair as the spasms shook the Elf's body. Legolas did not actually sick anything up, but he shuddered and retched as if in the grip of a terrible illness. It was a long time before the trembling subsided from his limbs. Finally he spat a globule of bright red blood into the basin beside the bed and collapsed face down upon the pillows.

Gimli poured a cup of water from the pitcher and held it out. "Here," he said.

Legolas did not move.

"Come on," Gimli said. He climbed up onto the bed beside his friend. "A drink will do you good. I'd offer you ale, but the staff of this place don't seem to stock it."

He reached to pull Legolas into a sitting position. But at the first touch of his hand on Legolas' shoulder the Elf jerked as if struck.

"_Daro!_" Legolas leaped from the bed and was across the room before Gimli could blink. He crouched against the far wall, staring wild-eyed through a fall of tangled hair. "Do not touch me!"

Gimli froze, his hand still outstretched. "All right," he said when he had regained his breath. "All right, I'm not going to touch you."

Carefully he climbed off the bed. Legolas watched his every move, tensing with each step of Gimli's approach. Gimli stopped a few paces away and set the small cup on the floor.

"There," he said.

Legolas looked from the cup to him and back again. He licked his lips. His voice was a cracked whisper. "You drink."

Something like anguish welled in Gimli's throat. "Legolas, it's me," he said.

When Legolas did not answer he sighed. "Oh very well," he said, trying to act as if there were nothing unusual about the request. "Seeing as it's you, then."

He took a sip and smacked his lips. "Mmm, good. Very refreshing, that."

Gimli set the cup down again and stepped back. Legolas watched him closely. When Gimli had moved beyond arm's reach he snatched up the cup and drank, wincing as he swallowed.

When the cup was empty Gimli filled it again along with a second cup for himself. Again Legolas watched, waiting until Gimli retreated before he drank. By the time they finished the third cup this way Legolas had calmed enough to take it from Gimli's hand. At the fourth cup he did not return to his corner before drinking. When Gimli poured a fifth cup, twenty minutes after Legolas had first regained consciousness, the Elf did not drink immediately.

"Hannon le," he whispered, cradling the cup between his bandaged hands.

Gimli smiled. "You're welcome, Legolas," he said.

A crease was drawn between Legolas' eyebrows as he looked around the darkened room. "Minas Tirith?" His voice was still weak.

"Aye," Gimli said. "You're in the Houses of Healing, lad, and you're lucky they haven't got wind that you're awake yet. And then the Queen'll be wanting to see you tomorrow, I suppose, and Faramir . . . it's going to be busy," he concluded glumly.

Legolas shook his head, frowning more deeply. "How did I come here?"

"That Corsair brought you," Gimli said. "He found you by the seashore and took you up river on his ship. You were in pretty bad shape," he added, as Legolas stiffened. "I'm not surprised you don't remember it."

"Dragaer," Legolas said. The cheap cup broke between his hands, spilling water across the floor. "He is here?"

"In the guest quarters, most likely," Gimli said. He reached for Legolas' hand. "Are you all right? You've cut yourself."

Legolas jerked back. "No!" He scrambled to his feet and stood, bracing one hand against the wall. He looked about anxiously. "Aragorn. Where is Aragorn?"

Gimli's stomach clenched. "I don't know," he said as calmly as he could manage. "In Harad, I suppose, with the army. Legolas, what did he –"

"Aragorn," Legolas muttered. He pressed his hand against his head. "The palantír . . ."

"He took that with him as well," Gimli said. Legolas was white, and the bruises at his neck stood out in marked contrast to his skin. He was shaking as if his legs could barely hold him. Gimli wanted badly to put an arm around him for support, and he had to force himself to remain still.

"Legolas, sit down. You're going to fall."

The Elf did not appear to have heard him. His eyes were closed as he leaned heavily against the wall. "The army is in Harad?"

"Unless you know differently," Gimli said. "What happened out there?"

Legolas shook his head again. "He is here," he whispered. "Inside . . . he's inside the walls. He has the palantír . . . they will come. _Ai Elbereth edraith enni_ . . ."1

"Och, lad, you're making even less sense than usual," Gimli said, but his heart was deeply troubled. "It doesn't matter if Aragorn does have that rock; he's miles from here now. He can't hurt you."

"Hurt me?" Legolas' eyes opened. They were clouded, dulled without their normal piercing intensity. "No. I will kill him. I told him that I would kill him."

Gimli swallowed. He felt as though the world were caving away beneath him, but there was no time to grieve for Aragorn now. His choice was made.

"So it's like that, then," he said. "Right." He looked again at his friend. "Only you'll need to rest for a bit first," he said. "You look like death warmed over. Arwen's going to –"

"Arwen!" Legolas' head snapped up. "Where is she?"

"In her room, I should think," Gimli said. "Asleep," he added pointedly. "It's late."

"No," Legolas whispered. "No, _yrchion_, you shall not have her."2

He started for the door. He made it two steps before falling heavily to his hands and knees. Gimli started forward in alarm. "Legolas!"

The Elf was struggling to his feet. Gimli grabbed him around the waist, steadying him. Legolas recoiled so violently that he broke Gimli's hold and fell against the wall.

"No!"

"I'm trying to help you, you daft Elf!" Gimli shouted in exasperation. "You're going to hurt yourself, carrying on like that!"

Legolas glared at him. Gimli was glad to see it. It was nothing compared to some of the looks the Elf had given him in the past, but at least the muddled look had gone from Legolas' eyes. A spark of his old fire flickered in their depths.

"There is nothing that can hurt me any more," he said. "Stand aside, Gimli."

"And you'll do what, exactly?" Gimli demanded. "Crawl your way to the citadel?"

Legolas flinched. Gimli softened his voice. "You can't help her like this, lad. I know you think it's important, but Arwen is safe. There are guards everywhere. You can't hardly move inside the citadel without tripping over them."

Legolas sagged against the wall. "Then he will wait," he said. "Like the poison viper, he waits. There are too few Men. When the army comes, they cannot stop it."

"Why would they need to?" Gimli said, puzzled. "Aragorn's hardly going to attack his own city. I don't care how mad he is, he wouldn't do that. And in any case, the army wouldn't follow him."

Legolas did not reply. His head was bowed.

"Unless . . ." Gimli said slowly. "Just what army are you talking about? Was there something in Harad? Are they coming here?"

For a long moment there was no sound but Legolas' faint, ragged breathing. He spoke without lifting his head. "Aragorn took the palantír."

"But Imrahil would see it," Gimli said. "If Harad marched on Gondor, Imrahil would warn us."

Legolas was trembling. Gimli came to attention, poised in case the Elf should fall again. Legolas' lips moved, but he spoke too quietly to hear. Gimli moved closer.

"No," Legolas was whispering. "No, I cannot. _Ai Elbereth_ . . . it hurts. It _hurts._ _Daro _. . . Aragorn, please . . ."

"Legolas?" Gimli lifted a hand, stopping just short of the Elf's sleeve. "Legolas, what is it?"

Legolas stopped. Very slowly, he straightened. His face was white, the skin about his eyes and mouth drawn tight with pain. But his jaw set in a familiar line.

"I must go to Rath Dínen," he said.

*~*~*

The Silent Street stretched under the shadow of Mount Mindolluin's precipice, at the base of the long road that wound down from the gate in the rearward wall of the sixth circle. A long way it seemed to Gimli, made longer still by the dark night and Legolas' agonizingly slow pace.

Gimli walked as close to Legolas as the Elf would permit and thought again that he should be in bed. Legolas teetered on the edge of delirium, and it seemed a miracle that he managed to keep on his feet. But he was determined to go, and all of Gimli's efforts to dissuade him had no effect.

Legolas would not even say what he planned, although Gimli had guessed much from his talk of Aragorn's palantír. Finally he gave up. Legolas had been badly used, and he barely tolerated Gimli's proximity even now. Pressing him on the subject would do no good and might hurt him further. So Gimli kept his peace, and prayed.

The key to the Tombs was not among those that Gimli had thought to duplicate. But in the King's absence and with a reduced number of soldiers in the city, the sentinel post at the sixth circle gate was unmanned.

That was a small blessing, Gimli thought. Another was that Arwen had called off his personal guard. He and Legolas met no one during the journey from the Houses of Healing.

He would have felt better if he were armed, but Legolas would not tolerate any delay and refused point blank to go near the citadel even to get weapons. Something about it seemed to frighten him. Gimli supposed that it was the Wood-elf's natural distaste for enclosing stone, exacerbated by Legolas' fragile state of mind.

So he did not have a knife to jimmy the gate lock. Instead Gimli smashed it with a stone taken from the newly refortified wall, the mortar of which was still soft. The noise echoed around the empty street. Legolas jumped, and then swayed and braced himself with a hand against the gatepost.

Gimli met the Elf's look and shrugged. "If the guards come we'll just tell 'em we've got business down below. If they don't like that then they can go and fetch Faramir for us. I told you we ought to get his help anyway."

Legolas shook his head, pushing past Gimli and through the open gateway. "Aragorn will not answer for Faramir."

There were no torches along the silent road, and no guards. The stars were thick in the clear night sky, but the moon was in the southeast and they walked in the mountain's shadow. Gimli was accustomed to the dark and his eyes soon adapted, but something about the empty path unnerved him. His boots rang hollowly on the wide paving stones. Columned archways towered on either side, their carvings worn away to mere traces on the crumbling stone. Tall statues of Men loomed in the darkness as they passed.

Legolas seemed to have no difficulty finding his way, but he could not take more than a few paces at a time without having to stop and rest. He swayed with every step, leaning heavily against the pillars and stone bases of the statues that they passed. Despite his reluctance to be touched he was forced to accept Gimli's help several times to prevent a fall. After one particularly close call Gimli wrapped one arm around Legolas' waist and braced his shoulder firmly against the Elf's side.

"Steady on," he said. "It's all right. There's no one here but you and me. One foot at a time now, come on." Legolas shuddered, but did not pull away. Slowly they went on.

As they walked Gimli's unease increased. The Dome of the Stewards towered ahead of them, a dark mass that blotted out the stars. The wind swirled through the archway, whipping the dust and straw into miniature cyclones. Stray breezes tugged at Gimli's cloak and muttered in the eaves. His footsteps seemed terribly loud in the empty passage. He tried to walk softly.

Legolas' pace slowed even more as they approached the Tombs. The journey had taxed the remainder of his strength, but more than that, he seemed reluctant to do the task he had set for himself. Gimli couldn't understand it. If the job was so crucial then why hesitate? And if Legolas truly did not wish to do it then why did he not ask Faramir or Arwen for help? Arwen was an Elf – or mostly Elf, anyway – she could probably manage it. And Faramir had already had some success with the palantír of Orthanc.

He'd given up trying to get a straight answer from the Elf. Legolas hardly spoke apart from the occasional half-crazed mutters to himself, most of which were in Sindarin. Even when he spoke in Common Tongue the words made little sense to Gimli. He seemed to be speaking to someone – Gimli caught Aragorn's name several times – but his tone was fearful, pleading. _Daro_, Gimli heard him say, again and again. _Daro, Estel, saes. _Stop. Please stop.

And that made the least sense of all. If Aragorn had attacked Legolas – and everything in Legolas' words and manner indicated that he had – then why was Legolas so desperate to contact him? Wouldn't he want to avoid him? Gimli remembered the hateful, terrifying vision of Aragorn that he had seen in Legolas' mind, and shuddered. And indeed it seemed that Legolas wanted nothing more than to flee, though he continued determinedly on.

They had reached the door of the Dome, which was made of solid timber and shut fast. Gimli left Legolas leaning against a pillar while he tried the handle.

"Locked," he said. Legolas did not answer. He was looking up, to where a sliver of sky could be seen between the mountain and the Dome. Gimli felt a pang of pity. "You don't have to do this," he said. "You know that. If you'd just let me get Faramir . . ."

Legolas dragged his gaze from the sky. He looked blankly at Gimli, as if he'd forgotten that the Dwarf was there. Then his eyes came into focus. "Aragorn believes him a traitor. He cannot help us."

"Queen Arwen then," Gimli said. "She could do it, couldn't she?"

"No!" Legolas snapped. Then he said more quietly, "No. She stays out of this."

"But she's already involved!" Gimli said. "She was at the Houses of Healing; she knows what Aragorn did to you."

Legolas froze. Staring at Gimli, he whispered, "Undómiel knows?"

Gimli blinked. "She's a healer, Legolas. She examined you when you arrived."

Legolas closed his eyes, rocking his head against the pillar at his back. His hands clenched into fists. "Who else was there?"

"I don't –"

"_Who else?_"

"Faramir," Gimli said. "And . . . Lady Èowyn."

"And you."

"Yes," Gimli said. He swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Legolas snarled. "Was that all who could fit into the room? What of the physicians and nurses? Surely they all had a good look as well. How about the serving staff? Were they not curious? You should have had an exhibition in the courtyard of Minas Tirith, room enough for everyone!"

"Now hold just a minute," Gimli said. "That isn't fair. You were hurt –"

"Yes," Legolas hissed. "And every mortal in existence seems driven to increase it."

He whirled and kicked out savagely. Gimli dodged aside barely in time. Legolas' heel smashed into the door just above the handle. The wood splintered and the door groaned open. Legolas caught himself against the frame, panting.

Gimli hurried to take his arm, but Legolas shrugged him off and staggered forward. Gimli hesitated, but Legolas did not look back. Evidently he had said all that he would on the subject.

For a fleeting moment the façade had cracked and the turmoil of his true emotions had bubbled to the surface: humiliation, fear, and anger such as Gimli had never seen in him before. But the moment passed, and the mask slipped back into place. Legolas went on. Gimli muttered a curse and followed.

The silence of the Tomb closed over them. Gimli's footfalls were lost in the great space. Vaulted archways swept up into the darkness high above their heads, and the statues of the Stewards stared blindly from alcoves along the walls. There was a heavy, expectant feel to the air. Gimli turned his head continually as they walked: he could not shake the sense that there was someone watching him, just out of sight. They were disturbing something, he thought, that should have been left alone.

Legolas seemed to feel it as well. He walked with head bowed, as though struggling against a weight that dragged at every step. His eyes were nearly closed.

The passage opened into a circular room. Moonlight filtered through the tall windows, illuminating a ring of archways around a heavy white sarcophagus. Empty torches were mounted on either side of each archway, black lines against the pale stone.

Legolas walked straight into the tomb and stumbled, catching himself against the marble slab. Gimli hurried to his side, ready to take his arm if necessary. Here in the open he felt more exposed than ever. The back of his neck prickled. Currents of air sighed through the empty passages around them. Gimli turned his head sharply. He could have sworn he saw something move behind him, but when he looked there was nothing there.

A black globe rested on the center of the sarcophagus. A ray of moonlight lay directly across it, but Gimli saw no reflection in its surface. It was empty, dark and silent. Legolas leaned with his hands pressed flat against the plinth's surface and stared at it. He was very pale.

Gimli could see letters carved across the top of the slab, written in what seemed to be a form of Elf-runes. But he did not need to read them to know that they stood before Denethor's tomb. He looked from his friend to the palantír and back again. "Now what?"

Legolas did not answer. Gimli reached out and tentatively touched the stone. It was cold, so cold that it burned his fingers. He pulled his hand back with a gasp.

"Do you feel it?"

"Feel what?" Gimli said. He put his fingers in his mouth.

Legolas' eyes were in shadow, his skin stretched tight over the bones of his face. "The waiting," he said. "It knows we are here."

His hands clenched white-knuckled on the marble slab. "You have no choice," he muttered.

"What's that?" Gimli said. But Legolas did not seem to hear.

"Coward," he said. He was speaking to himself, so quietly that Gimli could scarcely hear. "Will you shirk your duty? Undómiel is in danger. Coward."

Legolas drew a deep breath and grasped the palantír with both hands. A swirl of flame rose within it, and at the same moment something heavy pulsed through the air. Gimli felt a moment's lightheadedness as it passed. Legolas crumpled to the floor.

"Legolas!" Gimli reached to help him, but the Elf was already pulling himself to his feet, swearing vehemently.

Gimli looked back at the palantír. Fire flickered against the glass, lighting the chamber in a ruddy glow. Fleetingly he glimpsed a shadow amid the flame, an ash-grey shape like that of two hands consumed by fire. He shivered.

Legolas leaned once more against the tomb, breathing hard. He stared fixedly at the palantír.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Gimli said. "How about we go back to the healer's, and you can get some rest. In the morning –"

"The morning will be too late," Legolas said. "It may already be too late."

He drew a deep breath. "I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of Eryn Lasgalen. I have heard the call of Aman. I have named brother one in whom flows the blood of Númenor. I call him now. _Answer me._"

The flames within the palantír leaped higher. The chamber door banged open, making Gimli jump. A breeze swirled around them, billowing Gimli's cloak and pulling at the fine strands of Legolas' hair. Fragments of stone and detritus skittered across the marble floor, driven by the wind.

Legolas swayed, but did not fall. Gimli, standing close in case of accidents, saw the fire reflected in his eyes. "Creation of the Eldar, heirloom of Númenor," Legolas muttered. "Usurped by the Deceiver, you will serve your country now. Find the one I call."

The weight pulsed again, greater than before. Around the chamber the torches sprang to life, encircling them in a ring of flame.

"_Echuio,_" Legolas cried, buffeted by the growing wind. "_Telo enni!"3_

*~*~*

Aragorn sprawled upon his camp bed, one arm thrown across his eyes. He had lain there for hours, it seemed, and his body felt stiff and cramped. But he could not stir himself to move. The physical discomfort was nothing less than he deserved.

His mind churned sickly, the same images grating over his thoughts again and again. He saw Legolas limp upon the floor, his clothing torn. He smelled the sweet, cloying scent of the drug that he had used. He saw the dirt under his fingernails, his hands gripping smooth skin, bruising the flesh beneath.

The images followed him into a shallow, tormented doze, and he awoke wearier than before he slept.

_In dreams. That's when he comes. That's when he finds you, and makes you do these things . . ._

He could feel it watching him. He ignored it, tried to think of other things: of Arwen and Gondor and the enemy they faced. But his thoughts were clouded, fogged by guilt and tangled in the fractured remnants of lust. And inevitably his eyes would be dragged to one side, and he would see the heavy shape that lurked beneath the folds of his saddlebag.

He wanted to look into the palantír. He _needed _to look into it. And for that reason he was afraid to do so.

It had started so innocuously. Gondor was vast, and it was his duty to protect it. But the borders stretched for hundreds of miles: it would take days for a scout to travel even to Dol Amroth and back, much less to the distant reaches north, east and west. The palantír allowed him to see all of that and more in a single hour. It was logical to use it.

And oh, Valar, it was _good _to use it. He had not noticed when the occasional visit became a weekly ritual, and then a nightly one. He forgot when the initial discomfort had passed, when the headache that it gave him was superseded by the rush of adrenalin, the surge of power. He could see anything, anywhere. He could see anyone.

The lives of his people, his subjects, were spread out before him: their small hopes and fears, their inconsequential dreams. They were his to protect, his to command. And was it not his right to command them? He was their King. For all that he had sacrificed, all that he had given them, did they not owe him their allegiance?

It was a small step – such a small step, so slight that he did not remember when it happened – to extend this thought from the people as a whole to the individuals around him. His servants, his friends and his family . . . he protected them all. He cared for them. And he watched them.

The palantír became a constant need. He thirsted for it, for the power it gave him, the security. He did not have to trust, for he _knew _that his people were loyal to him. He knew everything about them.

But he could not watch them constantly. He could not be _certain. _And in the wake of this realization crept the cold fear of betrayal. And then there came the voice.

He lay upon his bed and tried not to think about it. Hours went by, and the sunlight slipped from the tent walls and sank into darkness. A servant came and set a plate of food upon the low stool at his side. Some time later he returned and took the untouched plate away again.

Time passed. Aragorn could hear the sounds of the camp outside, but no one disturbed him. He drifted in a haze: afraid to move, afraid to think. Legolas had escaped. For now, the voice was silent. Aragorn dared not upset the balance, to risk its return. He could not trust himself to resist it.

_You're hurting me._ And Legolas was still out there, somewhere. Aragorn could find him, take him, and bring him back. It would be easy, so easy to do. And when he had broken Legolas to his will . . . oh gods, he knew who would be next.

Arwen awaited him. Everything he did, everything he was, was for her. He loved her. He worshipped her. And from the first insidious whisper of the voice, he had known that he would destroy her.

He had nearly stopped using the palantír then and there, so horrified was he by the images that came afterward. He had seen Arwen hurt, Arwen brought down not merely to his level, but beneath him. And he had recoiled. But the need for control, the thirst for power, was greater than even his horror.

He had thought himself strong. He had resisted, had fought the voice to silence and turned the palantír to good purpose. He had won. But the effort was exhausting. And when the voice returned to whisper impossible things, foolish thoughts of allegiance and control and Legolas, _his friend_, he had listened. There was no danger, after all. Legolas was male. And it was easier to listen than to fight.

But what had seemed an absurdity was no longer so. He had committed acts which had been inconceivable only a few short months ago. He had attacked his friend, and proven himself weak. And he knew that Arwen was no longer safe.

The palantír was only a tool. The weakness, the sickness, was in _him_. It had always been there, a part of him, and now he knew that it always would be.

Aragorn awoke with a start. The tent was dark: the lamps had burned themselves out, and the air was cold. Sweat had dried on his skin, plastering his tunic clammily to him. He swung his feet off of the bed and sat up, trying to determine what had awakened him.

A red glow lit the far corner of the tent. Aragorn stared at it. Then he rose and crossed the floor on trembling legs, stumbling around the wreckage of furniture and draperies in the center of the carpet. He did not think about what he was doing. There was no question of choice. He was beyond that now. The palantír called, and he answered.

The saddlebag's flap had slipped to one side, revealing a thin line of light. Aragorn reached down and pushed the opening wide.

The palantír was lit with flame. Aragorn looked at it in bemusement. It had never done that before. Always it had cost him an effort of will to use it, and it darkened the instant he turned away. Of course it did. There was no one else to control it.

But now the flame cleared without any thought on his part, and there he saw Legolas standing small and distinct in a torch lit room. For a moment Aragorn thought he was still dreaming, and then he understood. The palantír had found him, and drawn Aragorn back to him. It was his destiny to destroy the ones he loved. He could not escape it.

_Aragorn._ Legolas was speaking. Aragorn bent closer. He had used the palantír to spy on Legolas before, but this was the first time the Elf had spoken to him. _Aragorn. Answer me._

"I'm here," Aragorn said. He was still dreaming after all, he decided. None of this was real.

_At last! _Legolas' image grew larger, as if he were moving closer to the glass. _Listen. You must bring the army back to Minas Tirith._

"Sorry?" Aragorn shook his head, trying to clear it. He had expected some recrimination for what he had done, but this was absurd. Even in a dream Legolas must know that he would not give victory to Gondor's enemies.

_Return now. Arwen is in danger._

"I know," Aragorn said. He sank wearily down to sit on the floor, resting his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt . . . I'll stay away. I will not touch her, no matter what it tells me. I swear I will not."

_Dôl gîn lost!_ 4Aragorn looked up. That certainly had sounded like Legolas, dream or not. _Listen to me. The enemy is not in Harad. He is _here._ His army is coming _here._ Return to Minas Tirith now, or all will be lost._

Aragorn straightened, staring hard at the palantír. "The Haradrim are camped in the desert. I saw them with my own eyes."

_It isn't the Haradrim at all, you thick-skulled empty-headed Man! He created the illusion to draw you away from the city. You left it defenseless!_

"That is not true," Aragorn said. He was growing angry now, and his head felt clearer. "I left five hundred men to guard it, and Gimli reinforced the battlements."

_Before you arrested him,_ Legolas said bitterly. _You made sure of that, did you?_

"Yes, I did!" Aragorn shouted. "I kept Arwen safe! I kept you all safe!"

Legolas laughed. It was a harsh sound, made worse by the palantír. _I will not argue with you, Elessar. But there are six thousand Men camped beyond the Rammas Echor, and your guard cannot defeat them._

"How do you know this?" Aragorn demanded. "What proof do you have?"

When Legolas did not answer, Aragorn sighed. "I knew it," he said. "This is another dream. If you were truly Legolas you would know that no army of Men could breach Minas Tirith."

_They are already inside the walls!_ Legolas was more furious than Aragorn had ever seen him. _You call me false. But you know me, Aragorn. Touch me, if you can._

Aragorn blinked. This was a possibility that simply had not occurred to him. The rules of courtesy regarding the Elven bonding of souls had been ingrained in him from the time he was old enough to understand. One did not initiate a bond without the other's consent. One did not touch another's mind without invitation. And once the bond was formed, one did not cross it without permission.

This had been mostly theoretical knowledge for a human. Even with Arwen their bond was something he could sense only when he concentrated, and that took great effort. He had no idea how to cross into her mind, even if he had wanted to. And he had a very good notion that the Elven mind was well defended enough to prevent him from doing so without invitation.

But now for the first time in years he reached out and deliberately felt for the connection that had been forged early in his youth, the first he had shared with anyone other than his foster father and brothers. It was not there.

In growing alarm he searched, but the quiet presence that had been a part of him, the steadfast support upon which he had relied unthinking for so many years, was gone. Legolas was gone.

Panicked, Aragorn groped clumsily further and felt, very faintly, a distant warmth. _Arwen_. He breathed a little easier in relief. But she was far from him, and what had once been a clear path to her was now a tangled thicket of fear and hurt.

Aragorn opened his eyes. Legolas was regarding him sadly. _You cannot reach me any longer, Aragorn. I think there are few who can reach me now. Soon there will be none._

"Legolas, I . . ."

Legolas shook his head. _You wanted proof. Here then is your proof._

The palantír grew brighter until it glowed dazzling white. It washed out the colors of Aragorn's tent, making everything seem flat and unreal. Aragorn shut his eyes, but the light seared through his eyelids. Power dragged him like a rip tide, pulling him over and under and down. He was falling. His stomach lurched into his throat, and he tried to cry out, but there was no air. He could not breathe. He could not think. He was falling, washed in light and falling into nothing.

He landed heavily, catching himself on his hands and knees. Sharp rock bit into his palms. Aragorn looked up, panting. Legolas stood over him. Wind whipped the Elf's hair and cloak. The sky was a deep red. Waves pounded the shore.

Aragorn struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knees. "Where am I?"

Legolas shrugged. "I do not know. Not in my mind, nor in yours, I think. We met somewhere between us, perhaps in the palantír itself. Look."

Aragorn turned. They stood at the top of a large sand dune. Before them a flat plain stretched into the distance. It was filled with long, ragged rows of black tents. Banners of red and sable snapped in the wind.

"The Haradic army!" Aragorn said. "This is what I saw!"

"Yes," Legolas said. "I saw it also."

Veiled riders were closing in upon them from either side. Aragorn whirled and found more approaching from behind. He reached for his sword. It was not there.

"What –"

"Ssh," Legolas said. "Watch."

The landscape changed, became a large and richly decorated tent. Aragorn could still hear the pounding of waves, though they were far from the sea. His head ached with the sound of them.

A tall Man approached. He was dressed in black robes, with a short curved sword belted at his waist. A long scar ran from the corner of his mouth up to his temple. He spoke, and Aragorn recoiled in shock.

_The voice! No figment of imagination, the voice was his!_

He was a Corsair captain. The whole army was Corsair, not from Harad at all. It was all an illusion, _and this Dragaer had a palantír._

"But I would have seen him!" Aragorn said. "I would have known if he were there!"

"Did you not?" Legolas said.

Dragaer was still speaking. _You do me a great honor, Master Elf, to imagine that I could force King Elessar to do aught. No. I merely gave him what he wished to see._

Aragorn stared. "No," he said.

The scene dissolved. They stood again on the rocky seashore. Aragorn rounded on Legolas. "That isn't true!" he said. "I never wanted – I never thought – it was him! All of it!"

"He did not force you, Aragorn," Legolas said. "He colored your thoughts, perhaps. But he did not force you. He could not. You overpowered Sauron Himself. Who could master you?"

"No!" Aragorn shouted. "There is more to it than that. What haven't you shown me?"

"I have shown you enough," Legolas said. "It was a ruse, Aragorn. The Corsairs are marching on Minas Tirith. If you do not return it will be overrun."

Aragorn shook his head. The battering of the waves was so loud that it was hard to think. "They will never get past the gate."

"They already have," Legolas said.

"_How?_"

Legolas stepped back. "It does not matter. He planned it this way. He planned it from the beginning."

"Planned _what?_" Aragorn caught Legolas' arm. "How did he do it? Treachery? The spies –"

"There were no spies!" Legolas snapped. "Can you not get that through your head? He had a palantír! He had no need of _spies._"

"Then how?" Aragorn demanded. "You've shown me the army, Legolas, exactly where I saw them before. I see no sign of Minas Tirith. You've told me nothing of how this fabled invasion is to succeed. And you want me to abandon everything we planned based on nothing more than your word –"

"Yes!" Legolas shot back. "My word! Is that not _enough?_"

"No," Aragorn said. His heart felt leaden, dull. "No. It is not."

Legolas stared at him. "Then so be it," he said at last. "I have had enough of Men. Let your city burn."

He turned away. But Aragorn went after him, and pulled him back. "Show me," he ordered. "Show me _everything_."

The scene changed again. But this time Aragorn was in command. It truly was like using the palantír, he discovered, except that now he was in the midst of the scenes he saw. The concentration, the mental discipline, was the same. And there was no one in Middle-earth to match his power.

Legolas protested feebly, but he was caught in the link between the two seeing stones, and Aragorn refused to let him go. Aragorn scarcely noticed his resistance save for the increasing roar of the surf, pounding like a drumbeat behind every scene they witnessed.

Aragorn watched the full interview with Dragaer this time. He saw Legolas bound at the Man's feet.

He saw the long ride to the seashore.

He saw the battle in the captain's cabin.

He witnessed the rape of his closest friend.

The sound of the waves rose to a crescendo and abruptly cut off. The world went black. Aragorn drifted, stunned, sickened, in ringing silence. Then slowly light returned. He was standing on a featureless plain, lit on all sides by a dull red glow. The sea was gone.

"That is all that I remember. I next awoke in Minas Tirith." Legolas was curled a few feet away upon the ground, his back to Aragorn.

Aragorn's throat constricted painfully. He could not speak.

"My congratulations, Aragorn. When Gimli dragged me back, he had nothing of your control. I fear he had a much more . . . intimate . . . experience, and coincidentally spared me the full brunt of it. But you are far more skilled. I was unconscious for the journey up the river and into Minas Tirith, but I am certain you could find a way to make me relive that as well, if you wish to observe the entire series of events."

"I didn't know," Aragorn whispered.

Legolas turned his head. "It was not for you to know," he said. "It was not for anyone to know."

He rose unsteadily to his feet. "I thought that there was nothing that could hurt me any more," he said. "It seems I was wrong about that as well. By your leave, King Elessar."

Aragorn let him go. The vision faded, and he was again sitting upon the carpet of his tent, the empty palantír beside him. He was alone.

* * *

1 _Ai Elbereth edraith enni:_ Ai Elbereth (creator of the stars) save me.

2 _yrchion:_ son of an Orc.

3 _Echuio:_ Awaken

_Telo enni:_ Come to me

4 _Dôl gîn lost!:_ Literally 'your head is empty.' Sort of the Sindarin equivalent of _you bloody idiot!_


	32. The Return of the King

"Dark have been my dreams of late."

– Théoden, _The_ _King of the Golden Hall_

Chapter 31: The Return of the King

The palantír went dark. At the same moment the wind died and the torches dimmed as though pressed down by an unseen hand. Legolas collapsed across the marble tomb, and it was only by Gimli's quick intervention that he did not slump all the way to the floor.

Gimli supported the Elf as well as he could. Legolas' eyes were closed and he was breathing in swift, shallow gasps. Gimli touched the angle under his jaw: Legolas' skin was cold, his pulse thready and weak. For a moment he thought that the Elf was unconscious, and he just had time to wonder how he was going to maneuver him back up the hill to the Houses of Healing, when Legolas spoke.

"I failed."

"No, lad," Gimli said. "You gave more than anyone could have asked. No one could do more."

"I could not stop him," Legolas whispered. "I tried, but he was too strong. Too strong. Ai . . . it _hurts_ . . ."

"Aragorn hurt you," Gimli said. He had not understood most of Legolas' struggle with the palantír – after he had reached Aragorn the Elf had fallen silent. He had stood rigid with hands gripping the seeing stone, but it was clear to Gimli that some mental battle had been waged, and Legolas had come off the worse for it.

"No more," Legolas muttered now. He was shaking his head, and moisture leaked from beneath his tightly shut eyelids. "No more, it hurts . . . please . . ."

"All right," Gimli said. He hugged his friend close. "You've done enough, lad. Let him go."

"No!" Legolas' eyes opened. He struggled to free himself of Gimli's hold, panting and falling to his knees when Gimli released him. "No! Arwen . . . I must . . ."

He tried to get to his feet and fell again, his breath tearing in ragged sobs.

"Shh, it's all right," Gimli said. He gathered the trembling Elf into his arms and sat, holding him firmly while Legolas' struggles weakened and finally grew still. "Shh, I've got you. No one's going to hurt you now."

_I'll make sure of that,_ he thought grimly. He did not fully understand Legolas' panic, but he had a good idea that it was a reaction to the trauma he'd experienced twofold now, both physically and mentally. Aragorn was to blame for most of it, he was certain, but there was something else going on as well, some reason Legolas had been so terrified and so determined to sacrifice this last bit of himself to reach the Man.

Well, no more. Gimli did not know what horrors Legolas had undergone, or what additional hurt Aragorn had done to him, but it was going to stop now. No one, friend or foe, would set foot near Legolas again without going through Gimli first. He swore it.

And let the Valar help Aragorn when he returned.

*~*~*

Aragorn tore out of his tent at a run. He was past the guards before they had time to react. He stumbled on the loose sand, caught himself, and ran on. His muscles were stiff and his legs felt weak. His eyes were hot and gritty from lack of sleep and the night air burned painfully cold in his lungs.

But his mind was clear. He felt alert, strong and capable for the first time that he could remember in weeks – in months. _He is here_ . . . the enemy was in Minas Tirith. All of the pain and fear and horrors of these past months were due to one man. He had attacked Aragorn's mind, he had assaulted his friend, and he had invaded his home. He might be with Arwen now.

Aragorn had tried again to reach her, to feel what she was feeling, to know if she was hurt. But he could not. There was only the dim sense that she was there, alive. Anything else was blocked to him.

But he knew what Dragaer intended for her. He had felt it, had thought it, had _desired _it himself all these months, just as he had felt the captain's twisted lust for Legolas. Bile stung his throat at the thought of what he had done, and more, what he had allowed to be done.

_No more_. He would stop it. He would break this Dragaer's hold, and he would save Arwen. He would permit no more hurt to her, or to Legolas, or to his people. He would save them all.

*~*~*

Éomer was riding his warhorse through an open prairie. The sun was warm at his back and the grass was as tall as his horse's knees, topped with seed heads of rich gold. Lothíriel rode with him. His arms were wrapped about her waist as he breathed the sweet scent of her hair.

For some reason they were riding bareback, a foolish thing to do on a stallion as powerful and fierce as Firefoot. Éomer thought to say something about this, but Lothíriel was happy, and he did not want to distress her. She was turning to speak to him when a small green snake slipped out of a clump of grass ahead of them. It whipped between Firefoot's hooves, and the huge horse shied violently in alarm. Lothíriel cried out, and Éomer tried to hold her, but she was falling and he could not both support her and also keep his seat on the horse's great smooth back.

Éomer bolted upright, staring into the pitch-blackness of his tent. His heart was pounding.

"My lord?" A man was standing over him, a mere outline in the darkness. He had a Gondorian accent. Éomer tried to slow his breathing.

"Éomer King, you asked to be informed if King Elessar left his tent."

Éomer swung his feet to the floor, pushing back the bedclothes that had become tangled around his legs. "Where has he gone?"

"To the corral, lord. Belgath followed him. Your orders were not to stop him . . ."

Éomer did not wait for more. He pulled a cloak over his night tunic and groped next to the bed for his boots. The guard lit a lamp. Éomer pulled the boots on over his bare feet, not troubling with their lacings, and strode out into the desert night.

It was cold. His breath plumed white before him, and he pulled his cloak tightly around him as he hurried toward the area where the horses had been picketed.

"Éomer King!" There was a pounding of hooves as a small party of Riders cantered up between the grouped tents. The leader pulled to a halt near Éomer and dismounted. "Lord, I wish to report –"

"In a minute, Threlwine," Éomer said. "There is something to which I must attend first."

He rushed on, leaving the men to fall in behind him. The path between the tents opened into a small clearing near the oasis, and there some twenty horses belonging to the Kings and their generals were tethered. Aragorn was saddling Hasufel. One of his guards stood nearby, looking nervous. The soldier's face lit with obvious relief as Éomer strode into the clearing.

"King Elessar!" Éomer called. "What news?"

Aragorn glanced up. His face was haggard. His lank hair hung over his face, and his shirt was half open, shoved haphazardly into the waistband of his leggings. He wore no cloak. Andúril was belted at his waist.

"Sound the horns, Éomer," he shouted. "Rouse the army. We ride for Minas Tirith!"

"_What?_" Éomer said, but Aragorn was not listening. "There is no time to explain. Ride now!"

"But the enemy –" Éomer began.

"He is in Gondor!" Aragorn said. "I was blind – oh Valar, I was so blind. He is there. He will destroy them all."

"But you saw him here!" Éomer said. "Did you not? How could he –"

"There is no time!" Aragorn cried. He grabbed a horn from the hand of a startled Rider. "Awake!" he shouted, and blew a blast upon it. The horn pierced the night and rang off of the surrounding hills. "Awake! Ride for Gondor!"

Throwing the horn down, he pulled himself up onto his horse's back and seized the reins. "Bring them as swiftly as you are able, Éomer King," he said. "I cannot wait any longer."

He sawed at the reins, dragging the animal's head around. Hasufel snorted, and his muscles bunched as Aragorn dug in his heels. They galloped away.

Éomer stood still, listening as the sound of hoof beats faded into the distance. His men were looking at him and at each other questioningly. More were stumbling out of their tents in the wake of the horn blast.

_What do we do now?_ Follow Elessar? Stay here? He still had twenty or more scouts out in the desert, searching for signs of the enemy. He could not abandon them, and it would take time for them to return. He could leave some men here to wait for them, and take the main force to follow Elessar. But what if the scouts encountered the enemy's army? What if the Haradrim attacked the men left behind – or worse, attacked the army as they were straggling back to Gondor? The horses were tired and the men were not much better off. They would be easy targets as they trailed home again through the desert.

What if this was some additional ruse of the Haradrim, playing on King Elessar's madness? Clearly he had seen some sign or vision to make him believe that Gondor was threatened. But how could the enemy have marched there without encountering either their army or Imrahil's spies? What if –

"Éomer King," Threlwine said. Éomer blinked and looked around. The man was standing close to him, looking anxious. With a dull sense of surprise Éomer realized that it was morning. The hills were lit with the diffuse light that precedes dawn. The stars were beginning to fade.

"Yes," he said. "Report."

"My lord, we found Prince Legolas' horse."

"What!" Éomer stared at him, and then at the group that had followed him. There was Arod, tied by a makeshift rope halter to a Rider's saddle. The horse looked spent. His head was down and his flanks were covered in sweat and dirt. His white coat was spattered with dried blood, though he seemed uninjured.

"Where?" Éomer asked. "How?"

"We found him in the desert," Threlwine said. "There was no sign of Lord Legolas. We thought that he might have been injured – you can see the stains on Arod's coat. So we backtracked along the horse's trail."

Éomer nodded. "Did you find Legolas?"

"No, my lord. But we found evidence of a large camp a day's ride from here. There were tracks from many horses, and scattered garbage and waste – scraps of leather, worn out clothing, broken weapons. And we found this."

He held out a bundle of cloth. Éomer unrolled it. There upon a tattered field of red was a black serpent, reared as if to strike. He sucked in his breath. He had last seen this flag upon the field of Pelennor. It was the banner of Harad.

"Lord, there was a trail from that camp as plain as anything I've seen. I would say they left there not more than two days ago."

"Were they riding toward Gondor?" Éomer asked.

"No, sire. They headed west, toward the coast."

Éomer stiffened. "Umbar," he said.

Aragorn had been right, he thought. The Haradrim had marshaled an army, but they did not attack Gondor directly. Instead they marched on her most vulnerable outpost.

Since the defeat of the Corsair fleet in the War Umbar had been reclaimed by Gondor. It had grown under Elessar's rule into a prosperous shipping port, but it retained a stubborn streak of independence. Few soldiers were welcomed there. It was a town of sailors, merchants and craftsmen and their families. They would be defenseless against the slaughter. Éomer felt sick.

"We may yet catch them," he said. "Rouse the camp. Never mind the tents and gear – I want every Man who can sit a horse ready to ride in half an hour. Take weapons and two days' worth of rations – and as much water as the men can carry. Leave everything else behind."

"What of King Elessar, lord?" A Gondorian soldier was looking worried. "He ordered us to follow him."

Éomer hesitated. "I am . . . re-interpreting those orders, sergeant. I do not know what King Elessar saw. But I do know where the enemy is headed. There are citizens of Gondor – women and children – who are under attack now. We're going to save them. Are you with me?"

The soldier stared at him, and then squared his shoulders. "Aye, my lord."

"Good man," Éomer clapped him on the back. "Rouse the camp."

*~*~*

Aragorn rode as he had never ridden before in his life. Pressed close to Hasufel's neck, he urged the horse on, faster and faster. Within minutes they had left the army camp behind. His eyes were nearly closed against the bite of the wind, his ears filled with the drumbeat of Hasufel's hooves. There was nothing else. He was numb, blind and deaf to anything else. He did not see, did not feel, and dared not think. There was only the need to run.

He had no notion of how much time passed in this way. He was forced to take enough notice of his surroundings to guide Hasufel along the safest road, but he cared nothing for the growing ache of his muscles, the dust stinging his throat and the heat of the sun against his back. Now and again the horse flagged, but Aragorn urged him on. Legolas was hurt, and Arwen was in danger. Gondor was in danger. There was nothing else . . . until Hasufel fell.

The horse stumbled over some unseen obstruction and caught in the grip of momentum he continued into a sort of running fall, staggering forward several more paces before he crumpled to his knees. Aragorn flew off the horse's neck and hit the ground hard. He shut his eyes tightly as he rolled, taking the blows of close-packed earth and rock to his body as they came.

He fetched up at the base of a large bluff that knocked the wind out of him. For several long minutes he lay there, his face pressed against the ground, struggling to breathe. Finally his lungs expanded, and he sucked in a grateful draught of air along with a generous amount of dust. Coughing, he lifted his head.

Hasufel lay upon his side, his neck stretched out along the ground. His coat was splotched in great swaths of sweat, and foam dribbled from his mouth. His labored breath rattled in his chest.

Aragorn crawled toward him, wincing as he moved. He felt as though he had been beaten with a heavy stick, but nothing seemed to be broken. He reached Hasufel and ran his hands over the horse's strong limbs. None seemed to be fractured. Hasufel rolled one white-rimmed eye toward him, but made no effort to rise.

Aragorn sat beside his horse and looked around. It was late afternoon, he saw with some surprise. The sun was barely a hand's width above the western hills: there was less than an hour of sunlight left. The hills themselves looked somehow different. Aragorn stared at them for several minutes before he realized what the difference was. They were green.

He straightened abruptly, ignoring the twinge of his back. But there was no mistake. The soil beneath him was firm earth, not sand. The nearby bluff was dun, without the red and gold mineral deposits of the desert. He rose and limped several paces until he was clear of the bluff. Shading his eyes, he saw the sunlight glitter off of something in the distance.

The river. He was nearly at Gondor's border. But that meant that he had traveled more than one hundred miles in less than a day. He stared at it in disbelief, and then turned to look at the horse stretched upon the ground behind him.

It was not possible. It could not be. But he was here, and Hasufel was dying. The realization broke upon him: he had ridden the horse to his death. Unknowing, uncaring, he had done whatever it took to get back to Gondor in time, and Hasufel had paid the price.

The strength ran out of Aragorn's legs, and he sat down hard. The full import of all that he had done came crashing down upon him, and he reeled under the impact.

He had thought to rescue the people he loved. He had thought to save them from the enemy. But the greatest threat was not this Corsair captain. It was him. They suffered because of _him._

He had destroyed the one friend who was dearer to him than any other. All the excuses, all the reasons and denials and explanations that he had held before him as a shield . . . they were hollow, empty and meaningless. The veil was torn away, and the faint glimmer of truth that he had occasionally glimpsed in the past burst full upon him, and the darkness fled before the blinding light of day.

He had meant to serve Gondor. He truly had. But he had sacrificed the people he loved in the name of keeping them safe, and he hadn't the right. A King might seek proof before he changed course in war . . . but Aragorn had done far worse than that. For what he told himself was the greater good, he had ignored his friend's distress. He had forced Legolas to re-live every moment while he watched – and he had violated his mind as surely as the sea captain had raped his body. Because of him, Legolas had suffered the most horrific act imaginable for an Elf . . . not once, but twice.

Because of him.

Aragorn doubled over as his stomach cramped. His body heaved, and he vomited. When his stomach was empty he lay quiet, trembling in the aftermath. His muscles felt weak and his skin was slick with sweat.

He had not known. He had not _wanted _to know. And he had hurt them in his ignorance as much as if he had done it with malicious intent. Legolas, Arwen, Éowyn, Faramir, even Hasufel: a poor dumb beast whose only fault had been to follow his command . . . and to trust him.

Aragorn pushed himself up onto his forearms, and then his knees. His head swam, but he forced himself through the dizziness until he was again at Hasufel's side. He laid a hand on the horse's neck. Hasufel lifted his head briefly and then fell back to earth. His eyes were glazed.

It was too late to save him, Aragorn thought. It was too late to save any of them. Everything that he did seemed to come out wrong. In trying to defend his people he had caused them more hurt than any enemy could have done alone.

He saw Arwen sitting in the frame of a window, and he saw the smile fade from her lips as she faced her husband.

He saw Faramir kneeling in the Tower room, waiting for the blow to fall.

He saw Legolas.

He bowed his head down to rest against Hasufel's flank. Perhaps he should simply stay away. Whatever might come, at least he would not hurt them any more.

This bout of self-pity lasted approximately thirty seconds. Then reason reasserted itself. Aragorn lifted his head. He might be wrong, he might do more harm, his mind and his desires might be twisted against him – but he would not sit by and simply _allow_ it to happen.

He was the King. Over and over he had said it, had heard the hated voice whisper twisted words of power, of domination, of control. Aragorn felt as though he had spent years lost in a nightmare world. But he had awakened now, and he was _still _the King. It was time to show this Dragaer what that _meant._

He would not fail them again.

Aragorn swallowed. His throat was scratchy and his mouth tasted of bile. He fumbled through his saddle pack and found one small skin of water, mostly empty. He took a sip. The lukewarm water was thick with the taste of the leather carrier. He swished it around his mouth and swallowed gratefully.

He could have drained the skin then and there, but instead he hitched himself forward and trickled a little water into the side of Hasufel's mouth. The horse snorted and lifted his head, blinking. Aragorn cupped some water in his hand. Hasufel's soft lips nuzzled him, and then the horse's long tongue licked along his skin.

Aragorn took hold of his bridle. "Come on," he urged, getting painfully to his feet. Every muscle of his body ached. "Get up, boy. Come on."

It took several tries. Aragorn was in an agony of impatience, and he felt a strange, irrational urge to shout at the horse, to _order _him to his feet. He quashed it. He kept his voice gentle, encouraging and praising Hasufel's efforts. Finally the horse got his limbs under him and stood. He swayed, his head down, his sides heaving.

"Good lad," Aragorn said. "Well done." He poured some more water into his hand and held it out. Hasufel drank, and when he had finished Aragorn poured out more, until the skin was empty.

He returned the waterskin to his saddlebag and took hold of Hasufel's reins. He set out, keeping his head bowed against the slanting afternoon sunlight. Hasufel stumbled after him.

It was a long walk to the river. There was little hope of reaching it, much less Minas Tirith, in time. But he had to try.

*~*~*

Lothíriel ran her hand down the slender stem, brushing the clustered leaves. Tiny spines snagged her fingers as she cut it from the mass of green.

"My lady, someone is coming."

Lothíriel looked up. Bregland, her bodyguard, had been leaning against the garden's wall. Now he straightened and his hand went to his sword hilt. A man was strolling along the stone flagged path between the potted shrubs. He was of average height, clean-shaven with salt-and-pepper hair, and he walked with the unmistakable rolling gait of a sailor. He saw her and raised his hand.

"Good day," he called, coming toward her. As he rounded the curve of the path a Gondorian soldier came into view, following a few yards behind him. Breland relaxed again.

"Good day," Lothíriel answered, setting her basket against her hip. She brushed her hand over her skirts, but it was no use. Burrs and bits of leaf clung to the fabric despite all attempts to dislodge them.

The man stopped a few paces away. "Pardon me if I seem forward. I don't rightly know your customs when a man introduces himself to a beautiful lady. Back home I'd just say 'Hello, my name's Amdir, and you are the loveliest creature that I've ever seen.'"

Lothíriel laughed. "I think your custom is a fine one. My name is Lothíriel."

"A pleasure to meet you," the man bowed. "My name is Amdir. And you are the loveliest creature that I've ever seen."

"I do not know what other creatures you have been seeing, but I rather doubt that," Lothíriel said.

"Ah! You wound me, my lady." Amdir's weathered face creased in a network of lines when he smiled. "Believe me, a man would give up the sea without regret if he could but spend his life with a vision such as you."

"I will believe that you are a charmer, and thank you for it," Lothíriel said. "But you came recently from a ship, did you not?"

"Aye, and a fine one at that," the Corsair said. "But I don't mind being landlocked for a time, with company such as this. Your city is a marvel."

"There are many who believe so," Lothíriel said non-committally. She had always loved coming to Minas Tirith as a girl, but after several weeks in the city she was ready to leave.

Arwen had welcomed her graciously when she arrived, but the Queen was so clearly unhappy that Lothíriel felt her presence was an intrusion. She had admired and liked Lady Éowyn from their first meeting, but since Faramir's arrest Éowyn had been increasingly preoccupied and impatient with any offers of sympathy.

Lothíriel herself had been shaken by her cousin's imprisonment. She had seen him once, but the visit had been short and awkward, as neither of them knew what to say to the other. He had forbidden her to return. Now he was free, but under such circumstances that she was not at all sure that he would remain so.

She felt helpless and forgotten in the darkness of King Elessar's court. She wished that Éomer were back, safe and whole. She wished that they could go home.

"What is that?"

Lothíriel came back to attention and followed Amdir's gaze to the basket on her hip. "Cleavers." Seeing his blank look she continued, "Some call it scratweed. I fear the gardener doesn't care for it, but it actually makes a good poultice for wounds."

"Ah! You are learned as well as beautiful." Amdir reached to touch the sticky mass of cut stalks. "I think we call this goosegrass."

"Careful – it will make a mess of your tunic," Lothíriel warned, moving the basket out of reach.

"And as the tunic is only on loan from your King's chamberlain we cannot have that." The Corsair smiled and folded his hands behind his back with elaborate care. "Is it really medicinal? I never knew that."

"Most things have their uses, if you look for them," Lothíriel said. "I am hoping that the healers will find a purpose for this."

"For your Elf, do you mean?"

Lothíriel felt her cheeks heat. She averted her gaze. "Lord Legolas is hardly 'my' Elf. But yes, I am hoping so."

"Ach, that was rude of me." Amdir sounded apologetic. "I've never seen an Elf before, and from what I'd heard – never mind. I'm sorry. Old habits die hard."

He referred to before the War, Lothíriel thought. Back to when the Corsairs were in league with Sauron, and the Haradrim and the creatures of Mordor . . . she could well imagine what sort of things he had heard about the Firstborn then.

"Is he all right? Lord Legolas. He looked mighty sick when we found him."

"I do not know," Lothíriel said. Tears pressed close behind her eyes, and she had to stop and breathe quietly for a moment before she could continue.

The spell that had fallen on her when she first saw the Elflord four years ago was no different than the affliction that left the serving maids swooning every time he came to visit the King. Legolas had always treated her with courtesy, but nothing more. With the wisdom that came with marriage to a good and loving husband she now recognized her emotion for what it was: a schoolgirl's infatuation. But Amdir was right. Old habits died hard.

"I only saw him briefly, last night when they brought him to the Houses. But I am certain he will be fine," she said. "He is very strong."

"I know," Amdir said. "I mean," he added, smiling, "I have heard that said about the Eldar."

Lothíriel nodded, but kept her eyes averted, avoiding his gaze. She busied herself with wiping the sticky film from her shears and securing them in her basket. "Please excuse me. I need to take this to the healer's."

"Allow me to escort you," Amdir said, falling in beside her. "I would like to see Lord Legolas again myself."

"I'm afraid you aren't permitted in the Houses, sir," his guard said, joining them. "Queen Undómiel's orders."

"Orders, right," Amdir sighed heavily. "So I can't go to the Houses, or to the archives, or to the armoury – I suppose the treasury is out too? And I can't so much as take a piss without you – sorry, my lady – without you fellows along for company. How about outside the city? Can I go for a walk without violating the precious Orders?"

"The city gates are locked except for on market days," Lothíriel said, amused despite herself. "I am sorry."

"You're joking!" Amdir said. He looked at his guard, who looked back stonily.

"We are at war, sir," he said.

"But you have market days," Amdir pointed out.

"The townsfolk still must make a living," Bregland said. Lothíriel glanced back at him. Her bodyguard was so habitually quiet that she often forgot that he was there until he spoke.

"The gates can be quickly shut again if there is any danger."

"Right." Amdir rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically. "So when is this next market day?"

"In four days," Lothíriel said. She was looking forward to it herself – the marketplace offered a welcome diversion to life in the citadel. "But perhaps your captain will decide to leave before then," she added, hoping to raise the Corsair's spirits.

But Amdir looked at her, and smiled. "Oh no," he said. "I expect that we will stay a little longer."

*~*~*

Denuir reined in his horse behind a stand of shrub pine at the edge of the river. His partner, Giflon, pulled up beside him.

"What is it?"

"Look," Denuir said.

A man was picking his way over the rocky shore. He had clearly just come across the ford, for both he and his horse were soaked to the shoulder. There was a safer crossing three miles further upriver, and Denuir wondered why the man had chanced it here, when the river was still high from the winter rains. Either he did not know about the other ford or else he was in a terrible hurry.

"Haradrim?" The man's head was bowed as he searched for footing in the ruddy light of the sunset, but for all of that he stumbled many times. His horse was not much better: the animal walked with head down to its knees, and it looked badly used.

"He wears a tunic of Gondor," Giflon said. He was ten years Denuir's younger, and his eyes were better. "Perhaps he is one of Elessar's soldiers."

"Then he is a deserter, or else the battle goes ill," Denuir said.

At that moment the man stopped, and his head came up. "Who goes there?" he called. "Show yourself!"

Denuir exchanged a glance with Giflon. They had been speaking quietly, and their horses had not stirred or champed. Whatever other qualities the stranger had, he possessed the hearing of the Elves.

Giflon held up two fingers and pointed to Denuir, then himself, and made a circling motion of his hand. Denuir shook his head. Whoever this man was, he was evidently alone. There was nothing to be gained by keeping him under surveillance. He jerked his head to one side and rode out from under the trees, Giflon close behind him.

The man stepped back, squaring himself to face them. His tangled hair fell over a face streaked with grime, his clothes were torn and plastered with river slime, but a long sword hung at his side, and he rested his hand on its pommel with the ease of one long accustomed to it.

"Peace, friend," Denuir said. "We are but travelers like yourself, and far from home. Might we join you? A little company is pleasant on a cold night."

The stranger's face broke in a weary smile. "It is indeed, and I am glad of the company – particularly that of Dol Amroth's doughty scouts."

Denuir did not move so much as an eyelash. "You are a bit confused, friend. We are naught but tradesmen, and poor ones at that. You'll find no rich spices or carpets here, but should you need a kettle mended or a knife sharpened we are at your service."

"And doubtless you could produce the wares to prove it," the man said. "But I have no time for that now. There is trouble in Minas Tirith. The army is coming behind me, but I could not wait. I must –"

"Hold a moment," Denuir said. He looked closely at the stranger. "Who are you?"

The man lifted his head. Clear grey eyes met Denuir's with such intensity that Denuir caught his breath.

"My name is Estel," the man said. "I am a scout of Gondor. We heard word that the Enemy has come to Minas Tirith by way of the river. You must send word to your lord: the army is coming behind me. Tell Prince Imrahil to muster his Knights and ride for Minas Tirith with all haste."

"That's a fine story," Giflon began, but Denuir spoke over him.

"What do you need?"

"A horse," Estel said. "And I would ask you to take mine for now. He is in sore need of rest."

"A well-placed arrow shot is more like," Giflon said. "You're mighty hard on horses, friend."

"No!" Estel said. "No, please, just take care of him. One of you stay with him, the other can go to Dol Amroth."

Denuir swallowed. "We will do as you say . . . Estel." He dismounted and proffered his reins. "There's food in the saddlebag," he said. "And two skins of water."

"Thank you," the man said. He pulled himself up into the saddle, wincing as he did so. "Take word to Prince Imrahil," he said again. "I must go on."

Giflon rounded on Denuir as the stranger galloped away. "Are you mad? You let him go? With no evidence – and you gave him your horse!"

"Hush, Giflon," Denuir said softly. He did not take his eyes from the figure rapidly shrinking into the distance. "That was your King."


	33. Cry

"Up with your beard, Durin's son!" he said.

"For thus is it spoken: _Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn._"

But what hope he saw from afar he would not tell.

– J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Last Debate_

Chapter 32: Cry

"Gone? What do you mean he's gone?" In his own domain Lord Trypline's voice was stronger and far more authoritative than when he was under the scrutiny of his superiors. But the chief healer's watery eyes were blinking faster than ever. "How can he be _gone?_"

"I'm sure I don't know, my lord," Ioreth said. She had weathered more than forty years of upheavals in the Houses of Healing, and little fazed her any longer. The disappearance of her patient overnight was a shock, but not worth this sort of fuss, she thought. He'd turn up again eventually, one way or another.

Trypline's fingers churned in his hair as he paced his cluttered office. "Have you searched the other rooms? Look in the storerooms, and the apothecary supplies, and the surgery – Eru! How can he be _gone?_" He stopped, one hand held over his mouth. "What will I tell the Queen? Oh Valar, this is the end of my career!"

Ioreth sighed and signaled to a watching chambermaid. She had an idea that they'd do better to look for an Elf out of doors than in a supply closet, but orders were orders.

"Lord Trypline!" A voice called, and there came the sound of running footsteps down the hall. An apprentice skidded to a halt in the doorway, catching hold of the frame for support. "Lord Trypline! You must come at once!"

"The Queen!" The blood drained from Trypline's face. "She's here! Oh Eru . . ."

"Oh, pull yourself together," Ioreth said. The joints of her hands ached in the early morning, making her snappish. "Of course it isn't the Queen. Is it?" she added, looking at the boy.

"No, m'lady," he said. "It's Lord Legolas!"

Trypline left his office at a run, parchments flying in his wake. Ioreth hurried after him as quickly as her arthritic knees would carry her. She followed the sound of voices to a corridor off of the main entranceway, where an excited crowd had gathered. Trypline had pushed his way to the front and was gesturing to an open chamber.

"Bring him in here," he said. "Put him on the bed."

"No," a deep voice said.

Ioreth poked a tall healer in the back with a bony finger. He looked down, frowning, and then moved quickly aside when he saw who she was. She smiled sweetly at him and took his place, giving her an unobstructed view of the scene.

Lord Gimli of the Nine Walkers was standing in the corridor, holding Legolas in his arms. Two aides stood nearby with a stretcher, but he ignored them. He marched past Trypline and down the hall without a pause.

Trypline gaped after him for a moment and then found his voice. "Where are you going? Stop! Stop him!"

A few young aides stepped forward uncertainly, but when Gimli kept on going they hesitated, looking foolish. They could not stop the Dwarf without laying hands on him, and wholly apart from the respect due to a hero of the War there was the danger that they might cause him to drop their patient.

"Blast!" Trypline said. "Call the guard!" Without waiting to see if his order was obeyed he set off after the Dwarf. The rest of the crowd followed.

Gimli led them down two long corridors and through several winding turns before he stopped at an unmarked door deep inside the healing complex. He cradled Legolas' head against one broad shoulder, supporting him easily. The Elf's long legs dangled over his arm almost to the floor.

"What is the _meaning _of this?" Trypline demanded, puffing to a halt before the Dwarf. His face was flushed red with anger and exertion.

"Open this door," Gimli said.

Trypline glowered at him, but took a large ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the door. "This is only a recovery room. It isn't meant for long term use."

Gimli made no sign that he heard this. He laid Legolas down carefully on the bed and stepped back, looking around the small room in satisfaction. "This will do. Now please see to my friend. And if someone would bring me a chair –"

"No!" The chief healer's patience was limited even in the best of circumstances and it had clearly run out now. "Lord Legolas is the King's guest. It would be a disservice –"

"To who?" Gimli interrupted. "Are you telling me that your patients don't receive the same care back here as –"

"Of course not!" Trypline shouted. "That isn't the point. Just return him to his room –"

"Which room?" Gimli roared back. "The one that he walked out of last night, and not one of your staff saw him go? The one that's right next to the front entrance and practically labeled royalty, where anyone would expect to find him? Or do you mean the one to which half a dozen damned Corsairs saw him admitted yesterday?"

Trypline stared at him open mouthed. Gimli glared back. Then the Dwarf took a breath, and unclenched his fists. When he next spoke his voice was much softer.

"I know that you'll take good care of him. But there's more here than just a sick patient. Someone hurt him deliberately, and unless I miss my guess they're apt to try it again. That's _my _lookout. Now I have here a defensible position, with good stone walls, where no one but you lot know where he is – and _you _won't be telling anyone," he added, looking around at them all. His dark eyes seemed to bore into Ioreth, and she gulped. No, she would not breathe a word of this outside of the Houses. The way Lord Gimli looked just then, she dared not.

"So you heal him," Gimli finished. "And I'll take care of the rest."

*~*~*

"You speak of treason."

There was a swift intake of breath from the assembly, audible in the silent chamber. Arwen's heart beat faster. She pressed her sweating palms against her skirts and tried to look calm.

"It is not treason to do that which is best for one's country," Faramir stood erect, his clear grey eyes meeting Lord Garwick's faded blue.

"And who says it is best?" Garwick demanded. The old man's voice rose querulously. "You? Well no doubt you think so, for yesterday you were in the dungeons, and today you command this Council!"

"I do not command anything," Faramir said. "I ask only that the Council hear my petition, as is the right of any citizen of Gondor."

"Lord Faramir speaks at my request, Lord Garwick," Arwen said. "It is my judgment that his words have merit, and this Council would do well to consider them."

"But at what cost, Your Majesty?" Garwick turned to her. "Are we to abandon the oaths of fealty that we have sworn? What feckless cowards are in this room, to consider such a thing!"

"Are our oaths to the King alone, or to Gondor?" Captain Aelon spoke up.

Garwick rounded on him. "Do you make distinction between the two?"

"I do," Aelon said quietly. "I have seen what King Elessar has done, and I deem that he does not serve Gondor's interests."

"We are at war!" Garwick shouted. "And you, Captain, _you_ would now cast judgment upon your King?"

Aelon swallowed. "Who took us into war? For what reason? Gondor's men are out there, perhaps dying. I saw a warrior – the King's friend, a hero of the War – come back yesterday badly injured. He was tortured, I deem, and if the King did not cause that then at least he did not prevent it. I want to know _why._"

"It is not your place to question Gondor's King!"

"Then whose place is it?" Faramir said. "This Council is charged with the care of Gondor. Who will stand for her if you do not?"

A silence fell over the assembly. Arwen glanced around, feeling the weight of the surrounding councilors' stares pressing down upon Faramir. He stood quiet under their scrutiny, unbending as steel.

"Do you find fault in the manner by which this Council performs its duty, Lord Faramir?" The head of the Council, Lord Gryer, did not raise his voice. He rarely did. But his words were clipped.

"I do," Faramir said. A low buzzing rose from the assembly, like a drone of bees. Faramir spoke over them. "I find fault with any Council that shirks its responsibilities and lies down in acquiescence when it should stand and fight! This past year King Elessar has ignored protocol, he has ridden rough-shod over the Council's traditional authority –"

"It is long since Gondor had a King," Garwick interrupted. "The tradition you knew may not apply."

"So this is the precedent you set!" Faramir said. He looked hard at the senior councilor. "And in truth it does not far deviate from recent past. Gondor's ruler claims we face a great threat – and you do not question. He sees treachery around him – and you imprison conspirators. He takes counsel in that damned palantír – and you let it happen!"

"King Elessar is not Lord Denethor!" Garwick snapped.

"But this Council is still as spineless as it was in my father's time!" Faramir shouted back. "I give thanks to Eru that at least the King's Guard is more intelligent these days, else I should have expected a pyre in my prison cell!"

There was a pause. Garwick looked stricken. He actually took a step backward, a palsied hand pressed to his chest. Aelon took his arm.

"It is because of past wrongs that we must act now," he said. "Please, grandfather." He guided the old man to sit down.

Lord Gryer coughed. "Clearly emotions are running high," he said. "You may consider, Lord Faramir, that your personal history is influencing your judgment in this matter. But," he continued, as Faramir moved to protest, "the point is valid. King Elessar's actions merit closer scrutiny than they have previously received from this Council. In particular, Lord Legolas' injuries are troubling, and I believe that we are justified in requesting a full account of how they occurred."

"What of the Elf?" another councilor asked. "If he is admitted as evidence, should we not examine him?"

"No!" Arwen said. The men turned to look at her. She felt her cheeks heat, but lifted her chin and spoke firmly. "I have examined Lord Legolas myself, and I will attest that he is grievously hurt. He cannot be disturbed."

There was a murmuring around the chamber, which soon subsided. "Your Majesty's word is of course inviolate," said Gryer. "No further examination of the subject is necessary at this time."

He looked around the room. "We have heard Lord Faramir's testimony of events in the Tower. Queen Undómiel has supported his claims. Considering this, and given the evidence we have all seen of King Elessar's . . . unusual behavior, together with Lord Legolas' injuries, it is my judgment that further investigation is required."

He paused, sweating, but no one spoke. When he continued it was in a ceremonial tone. Arwen looked away.

"Let King Elessar be called to account. Let the evidence be read against him, and let justice be done upon him. What say ye, my brothers?"

There was silence. For a moment Arwen thought that they would not go through with it, and hope – mad, unreasoning hope, for she knew that this was necessary, for her son and for them all, but oh, she did not want this, no, please no, she did not want it – hope sprang in her breast.

Then a low voice, impossible to tell whose it was, spoke from the back of the room. "Aye."

A moment later the chamber echoed with the responses like the tolling of funereal bells. "Aye . . . Aye . . . Aye." Finally only old Garwick was left, and when he spoke it was in a low voice, and he did not lift his eyes.

"Aye."

Arwen shared a look with Faramir, and in his eyes she saw sorrow and grim resignation to match her own. It was done.

*~*~*

This time there was not even the cold. He was hollow, adrift and consumed in the void. There was barely any sense of himself anymore. He existed only as the faintest of outlines in the black, the merest shimmer of awareness separating the emptiness within from that without.

There was no pain.

It came to him, after a long span of time that was not time, in this place that was not a place, that it was strange that this was so. For the longest time (_what time?_) it had seemed that pain was all there was. He (_who?_) had suffered so much, for so long (_when?_) that it was impossible to believe there could be anything else. And indeed there was not.

He considered this. Pain had filled the world – pain _was _the world. And when the pain had stopped, so the world stopped too. This seemed logical.

Yet he stayed. Why?

A feeling (_what feeling?_) of urgency flared, white sparks flashing in the black. He had to . . . what? An image ghosted past: the fall of dark curls, pale skin soft and cool as rainwater. For a moment without duration he heard it: the pure tone of an Elven _faer_, sung with the heartbreaking sweetness of mortality.

_Aragorn is gone, and I cannot bring him back. Be with him, Legolas. Save him, if you can._

Legolas drew back. If he could have done so in this place without physicality he would have wrapped his arms around himself. The vision slipped away as if it had never been.

He should follow it. He had sworn (_when?_) to save . . . someone. He no longer knew who, or when, or why . . . but the oath remained. It was all that remained.

But the image was gone, and he drifted (_where?_) formless, directionless, and he did not know how to follow.

And he feared to try.

The void was not everything, after all. Pain skirted its edge, defined it, lurked and growled at its boundary. He could not cross that barrier now. He had fought to a point far past endurance; he had clung to the thinning edge of sanity when all hope was gone. Now with his last remnant of strength he grasped the tattered threads of duty, love, and promise, and wove of them a fragile shell to cage his broken spirit. Atom-thin it wavered in the void, lit by electric thought impulses that sparked and ran shining down its threads. The merest breath would tear it asunder.

It would not survive the storm that raged outside, the battering winds of hurt, and shame, and heart's betrayal and death of love. He would not survive.

He collapsed a little further in upon himself. Warrior memory raged to do battle, but there was no honor in a death now longed for, that helped no one. So he clung to a life without honor, without hope for love or healing, for that too was a promise.

_I will live to kill you myself._

They were words spoken in a folly of pride and fear, but they glowed hot within him, and he huddled close to their warmth. And he survived. In the barest, most stripped-down meaning of the word, he lived.

As the darkness deepened a final image glimmered: the gleam of russet hair and beard, deep-set eyes looking at him with concern. In its fading there came a whisper of regret. _Gimli . . . I should have told him . . . important._

But he could no longer remember what it was.

*~*~*

It was the third day since the Corsairs had brought Legolas to Minas Tirith, and Arwen was sick of waiting. After all the debate, and the fear, and the uncertainty, the Council was finally poised to act. They had sworn her fealty as regent of Elessar's son – a brief ceremony, with none of the elaborate rituals that Faramir had described at Aragorn's coronation. Those would come later, when the immediate crisis had passed and the lords of Gondor's far-flung provinces assembled in the city.

She had offered the white rod of Stewardship back to Faramir, but he refused it. He would take it up again only after the trial, when Elessar's accusations against him were heard and the Council rendered its judgment. The people must have no doubts about their Steward's loyalty, he said, and she agreed.

She did stop short of allowing him to return to the dungeons, as he appeared all too willing to do. Honor was all very well, she told him, but she had need of his counsel as she learned to rule a country of Men. Éowyn, whose pregnancy was so heavy now that she looked ready to burst at any moment, had told him much the same thing in the privacy of their own quarters, and in far less diplomatic language.

So Faramir stood at her side as an unofficial advisor while she navigated the murky political waters and held court. For despite all the upheaval the people still had need of their ruler. Incredibly, impossibly, the world went on.

If only it could be _over._ The waiting, the uncertainty, was unbearable. There was no word from Imrahil. She had sent messages to Dol Amroth, to Umbar, to every province of the south that might have some news of the army's whereabouts, and there was nothing. Until Elessar returned, they could only wait.

"It really is intolerable, Your Majesty," Lord Trypline said. Arwen dragged her attention back to the chief healer. He stood in the center of the court, his lips pursed and indignant. "I have spoken with Captain Aelon, but he seems unwilling or unable to act. In the absence of the Steward –" Arwen glanced at Faramir. He was gazing carefully into middle distance, and avoided her eyes. "—I have no choice but to come to you. Lord Gimli has disrupted the Houses, he's terrorized the staff, he shows no respect for my authority –"

"He has not actually prevented you from treating your patients?" Arwen said. She felt light-headed, and her stomach churned queasily. The air was too thin: she could not get her breath.

Trypline looked pained. "No, Your Majesty."

"And Legolas' condition remains unchanged?"

"Yes."

Arwen sighed. "I appreciate that the strain on your staff, Lord Trypline, but I must ask you to bear with it awhile longer. Lord Gimli is a dear friend and confidant of Lord Legolas. His presence cannot hurt him, and it may do some good."

"With respect, Your Majesty, that is unlikely. Lord Legolas is comatose. The chances that he has any awareness of his surroundings –"

"I know," Arwen cut in, more sharply than she had intended. She stopped and composed herself. "We call it fading. He is leaving this world, and we must let him go." The words sounded a knell in her mind, adding to the weight that pressed down upon her. "Allow Lord Gimli this time to grieve. That is all."

Trypline looked sourer than ever, but bowed in acquiescence. As the guard escorted him out Arwen stood up.

"Court is adjourned," she said. Faramir looked surprised.

"But, my lady –"

"It is adjourned!" Arwen repeated. She lifted her skirts out of the way as she hurried down the steps from the throne, and spoke without looking back. "Or you may preside over it yourself – I do not care!"

The assembled personages hastened to bow as she strode past them and out the massive doors into the courtyard. She half-ran down the stone pathway and onto the grass, her heart beating trip-hammer fast. Her vision blurred, and she wiped the tears angrily away.

These attacks had grown more frequent in the days since the Council's decision. Sometimes there was a trigger – as now, when that pompous healer had spoken so casually of Legolas' fate – but often it seemed that there was no cause at all. She might be sewing in her study, or studying some tractate of Gondor's law, and suddenly her heart would constrict and her breath come shallow and fast as though her ribs were cutting into her lungs, and she would be seized by a desperate need to get out.

The grass was soft beneath her feet and the birds were singing. All around the courtyard trees blossomed pink beneath a mackerel sky. She drew a careful breath, and then another, as gradually the tight band about her chest loosened.

Time to grieve, she had told Lord Trypline. But it was not grief that she felt now. It was rage.

She could not put Legolas' injuries out of her mind. For days the images had haunted her: the torn skin of his wrists, the bruises on face and neck and thighs: brutal evidence of the most horrific violation within. Her mind shied away from the full import of what it meant, but at the same time she returned to it again and again, like a child picking at a wound that would never heal.

Aragorn had done that to him. _Aragorn_ had – she could not complete the thought, even in her own mind. It was nonsensical, impossible, as unreal as saying that black was white, or that two and two made five.

She knew it was impossible. And yet . . . and yet she remembered those clumsy, groping encounters in the dark: rough hands upon her skin, tightening . . . and withdrawn. A muttered oath and he had retreated, not looking at her, and she was left in their bed alone. She had avoided thinking about what it meant . . . but the darkness skirted unseen around them, closing in and poisoning even their last night together, when her son was conceived.

_Do you love me?_

Yes, she had said. Yes, she believed. But oh, Elbereth, love could only go so far.

_Love me, because you are mine._

She was his. The ring upon her hand proclaimed it so, the laws of Gondor had sealed their troth of forty years. But the darkness consumed him, and he must have proof. And so he had claimed her, and marked her as his own.

And so he had claimed Legolas.

Bile stung her throat, and she swallowed hard. She had _sent _Legolas to him. She had insisted that he reach out to him, she had extracted the promise that he would bring Estel back to her . . . and in doing so she had destroyed him as surely as if she had done the act herself. She had seen what Elessar was capable of, she had known the danger, but she had refused to believe.

_Love me . . ._

So that was what love meant to Men. She had bound herself to one, her son would be one, she would live out the remainder of her days and die in a city of Men – and she hated them. She hated them, and she hated him.

She hated him for betraying her, and for making her an accomplice to Legolas' death. She hated him for the mortality to which he had bound her. She hated him for the son who he would never see. She hated him for making her love him.

And she _still _loved him. She hated him for that most of all.

"My lady?"

Arwen wheeled around, startled. Mortality must have dulled her senses indeed, for she had not heard anyone approach. The Corsair captain stood a few paces away, looking at her with concern.

"Forgive me," his fine lips curved in a smile, "I did not mean to frighten you. You seemed troubled."

"You did not frighten me," she said, glancing around the courtyard. There was no sign of the guards. "Thank you for your concern. I am fine."

"Ah. I am glad to hear it. It seemed to me that you had cause for worry." He shrugged his shoulders, a surprisingly graceful movement for such a large man. "But I am only a humble sailor, and know little of the intrigues of the court."

"I do not know what you mean," Arwen said. She took an unobtrusive step backward, trying to put some distance between them without being obvious about it. The Captain had made no motion toward her, but something about him made her uncomfortable. She looked again for the guards.

"I have heard a few stories, that is all," he said. "One grows lonely of an evening and goes for a game of Nine Men's Morris and a drink in the local tavern – not that Your Majesty would do such a thing," he added, his black eyes twinkling. "And men tend to talk in such circumstances."

"And what have you heard?" Arwen met his gaze. "I am sorry, Captain . . .?"

"Dragaer, my lady." He gave a short bow. "Soldiers' tales, mostly, which are not so different from sailors' stories. Men talk about their commanders, their mates . . . and their King."

"I see." Arwen wanted to free herself of this conversation, but at the same time she had a morbid desire to learn just how far the rumors of Elessar's behavior had spread. She listened in spite of herself.

"Of course I am certain that King Elessar is an honorable man," Dragaer said.

When she did not answer he went on. "But he is also a commander, and as such he must be accustomed to having the allegiance of his men. He is used to being obeyed."

_He never was before!_ Arwen wanted to cry, but she could not speak. Her mouth was dry.

"However he was before, you must know that a King's lifeblood is power." Dragaer moved toward her. His feet made no sound on the grass. His large hand rested warm against her arm as he bent over her. "He commands absolute loyalty. You know this, do you not?"

Arwen nodded. Dragaer's voice was deep and cultured, his dark eyes hypnotic. She stood numb, listening as he spoke gently, knowingly, of things she had long seen and been afraid to face.

"It is the nature of the King." His hand tightened upon her elbow. "Such men dare take what they want."

"Queen Undómiel!" A page was running across the grass toward them. Dragaer's hand fell from Arwen's arm as she pulled away.

"Queen Undómiel!" the boy came to a halt and bowed, panting. "Captain Aelon sends word. King Elessar is approaching the gates!"

Arwen's heart lurched. "The army has returned?"

"No, m'lady. He is alone. Captain Aelon asks for orders."

Time stopped. Arwen was frozen, staring across the courtyard at the silhouette of the White Tree sketched against the cloud-strewn sky. She could feel Dragaer's tall presence at her back. She heard the page's breathing slow as he waited for her reply. A bird sang once: a long note that hung in the still air.

A thousand images crowded in her mind. A boy who stood tall beneath the weight of destiny neither desired nor looked for. A hilltop in Lothlórien where a man, older but still so very young in years, swore to love her always. His hands slipping the ring of Barahir cool upon her finger. The spark of life new within her. Hard words spoken: _you will obey me _. . . his hands grasping her, needing, suddenly withdrawn. The White Tree dying. She saw an Elven prince lying broken upon a rough-hewn travois. _Such men dare take what they want._

_Do you love me?_

Arwen drew breath, and when she spoke it seemed as if the words were coming from outside of her.

"The Council's orders stand. Arrest him."

The moment ended. The boy bowed and ran back to the citadel. Arwen followed, still numb, not feeling the ground beneath her as she walked. Dragaer came a few paces after.

In the empty courtyard behind them, unnoticed, buds swelled along the White Tree's limbs. The sapling stretched out narrow branches toward the sun, and at one tip a single leaf unfurled. In time it would lighten to the silver befitting a scion of Telperion, but now it gleamed new in the sunlight. It was green.


	34. Homecoming

"O out of terror and dark, to come in sight of home."

– Walter de la Mare, _The Pilgrim_

Chapter 33: Homecoming

Minas Tirith glowed like a beacon in the afternoon sunlight. The white stone of her walls shone as they wound level upon level up the slope of Mount Mindolluin. Aragorn's heart beat faster at the sight. He drew rein on the Pelennor road and looked his fill, but no flicker of flame or smoke marred the clean lines of the city. She was whole.

He dared to breathe again, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. The Corsairs had not yet attacked. There was still time.

The massive gate swung ponderously open and a line of riders galloped out. They circled around him as he approached.

"King Elessar!" the lieutenant hailed him.

Aragorn pulled himself straighter in his saddle.

"What news?" he called back. "How fares Minas Tirith?"

"Quite well, my lord." The lieutenant's eyebrows lifted beneath his helmet. "Is there reason it should be otherwise?"

Aragorn did not answer. Head down, he guided his lathered horse through the massive archway. The escort clattered in behind him.

As he passed under the entrance's shadow, Aragorn looked around at the guards high upon the wall. "Make fast the city," he ordered. "Bar the gate!"

The lieutenant and his men followed as Aragorn urged his horse up the winding street to the second level, their hooves ringing on the cobblestones. Despite his anxiety, Aragorn had taken care not to exhaust the horse he had acquired from the Dol Amroth scout. The gelding was blowing hard, but summoned the will for a final charge through the city.

They cantered past walls crowded with onlookers, past the wooden slats and poles piled in heaps along the roadside, ready to be assembled into stalls for the market the next day. Aragorn's whole body ached from days of riding without rest. His eyes were burning and every jolt of the gelding's hooves against the cobbles sent a spike of pain up his spine and into his skull.

A crowd was gathering in their wake, people leaning from their windows to watch the King's party pass, excited murmurs running along both sides of the street ahead of them. Aragorn paid it no mind until he reached the sixth circle, where the road was blocked by a phalanx of soldiers with the Captain of the King's Guard at their head.

*~*~*

Gimli sat with head bowed and tried again to reach Legolas. He closed his eyes and pictured the path through Lothlórien. Frowning with concentration, he visualized the smooth white trunks, the golden leaves, the crunch of his feet as he followed the path down, down into . . . nothing.

Nothing. Gimli opened his eyes. He was long past feeling foolish or embarrassed in his attempts, but he was decidedly frustrated. It had worked before. He had found Legolas, though he still did not understand where or how, and he had brought him back. He had. But whatever link or door he had followed before was now gone.

It was not even as if the door were barred shut, or had become heavy or bolted fast. He was ready for that, he was certain that he could find a way past it if it were. But he could not find the blasted thing at all. He had focused on every memory he could dredge up of the Elf, he had talked to him, had scolded him, had held his hand for hours on end . . . and _nothing _worked.

Whatever bond or connection they had shared was gone. Legolas was gone.

Gimli took a deep breath. "All right," he said aloud. "Once iron, twice silver, three times gold, right? Here we go."

It was many more than three times that he had tried this, but he closed his eyes again and thought as hard as he could about Mirkwood. After considering the images he had encountered in his last venture into Legolas' mind, he had decided that the hurt Elf was most likely to seek refuge in the home of his childhood. Retracing the road he had taken the first time did not work, so he tried a more direct approach.

He pictured the huge doors of the Elvenking's stronghold, visualized them swinging open as they had done when he and Legolas visited Eryn Lasgalen after the War. He saw the wide passageways of polished stone, the intricately wrought carvings that decorated every support and beam. He put aside the feelings of trepidation that had plagued his own visit to the place and instead tried to focus on what it might mean to Legolas: familiarity, security, comfort.

He deliberately did _not _think about the welcome that the Elvenking had given them. Figment of the imagination or not, he had no desire to meet Thranduil again. Instead he saw Legolas leading him through the halls, Legolas staying firmly by his side despite the whispers from the watching Elves around them. He willed the memories to become something more, to develop into a connection with Legolas now: a link to save his dying friend.

Nothing. Exhausted with the effort, Gimli sagged in his chair. His head ached from the strain of concentration. He blinked his eyes into focus and looked at Legolas.

The Elf lay exactly has he had before, limp upon the bed, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. His hand in Gimli's was bloodless white and cold.

Gimli felt like putting his fist through the wall. "Durin's beard, Elf!" he swore. "What does it _take?_"

He breathed heavily for a few minutes, glowering at the unmoving figure. Then he sighed. "All right. Let's try once more, shall we?"

He was just closing his eyes when something caught his attention. The Houses of Healing had solid walls that muffled the noise of the outside street, but he thought he heard something. He crossed to the chamber door and opened it. Leaning into the corridor, he heard it clearly: a sound of many voices talking at once. It sounded as though a crowd were gathering outside the Houses.

Over the course of the previous twelve hours Gimli had brought every weapon he owned down from the Citadel and hidden them around Legolas' room. Now he grabbed a small axe from the drawer of Legolas' bedside table and hurried out, pausing only to close the door securely behind him.

*~*~*

"You cannot be serious," Aragorn said.

Aelon looked grieved. "I assure you, Your Majesty, I am. If you would please come with me –"

"Minas Tirith is under attack!" Aragorn said. He paused, fighting to bring himself under control. His skin felt sandpapery with weariness, his head ached, and now this obtruding boil of a captain was keeping him from Arwen and Legolas. He took a deep breath. Annoyance or not, he had to make Aelon understand. This was no time to stand on pride.

He dismounted stiffly, clinging to the saddle for a moment when his legs threatened to buckle beneath him. A guard came forward and took the horse's reins. Aragorn straightened and faced Aelon at eye level.

"Three days ago a party of Corsairs came to Minas Tirith. I have reason to believe that they are an advance party of a larger force: an army that has invaded Gondor. They mean to overthrow this city. We must brace up our defenses to fight."

Aelon's eyes flickered. "Where is this invading army, lord?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I do not know. Beyond the Rammas Echor – near the river – I do not know. But they are coming here."

"You have seen them?"

"Yes!" Aragorn snapped.

"But you do not know where they are."

"I saw them in the palantír," Aragorn said. "In the desert."

"Your pardon, King Elessar," Aelon's voice became carefully detached. "My understanding was that it was the Haradrim you saw in the palantír."

Aragorn ground his teeth. They didn't have _time _for this. The Corsair captain was inside the city – he might be with Arwen now. "I will explain everything," he said. "But first I must get to the citadel. Stand aside."

Aelon did not move. "I am sorry, my lord," he said. "My orders are to escort you."

"Your orders?" Aragorn stared at him. "I have given you your orders. By whose authority do you disregard them?"

"Mine." The wall of soldiers parted, and Faramir stepped into the circle. A murmur of voices rose from the watching crowd.

Aragorn felt the world tilt on its axis. When it righted itself he found that he was gaping at the Steward. His voice was faint. "You're in the dungeons . . ."

"I was, my lord," Faramir said. "Events required my presence elsewhere."

"Which events?" Aragorn demanded. "Is Arwen hurt?"

Faramir looked surprised. "No, my lord. She is safe."

Aragorn's head swam in a surge of relief. "I must see her," he said. "Faramir, arrest the Corsair captain and his men, and set a watch on the city walls. There is no time to lose."

Faramir exchanged a look with Aelon. "On what grounds should we arrest them, King Elessar?"

"Conspiracy to attack Gondor," Aragorn said grimly. "And – attempted murder of a Firstborn."

Faramir looked at him intently. "What do you know of Lord Legolas' condition, Your Majesty?"

Aragorn avoided his eyes. "He is injured," he said. "I must go to him."

Faramir drew a slow breath. "I do not believe this is the place to discuss such matters," he said. "I –" he broke off, and turned.

A commotion was growing in the surrounding crowd. People were crying out in surprise and looking down, moving aside as something jostled them out of the way. The motion rippled across the mass of onlookers as something arrowed through them.

"Out of the way! Let me at him!" Two guards were shoved roughly apart as a round, iron-helmeted head broke between them. Gimli stormed into the midst of the circle, his eyes blazing.

"_You,_" he growled. Aragorn took a step backward as the Dwarf bore down upon him. His hand went instinctively to the sword at his hip, but Gimli was inside his reach, glaring up at him from chest height.

"Why did you do it? He trusted you! I tried to warn him – but the damned fool believed in you! He loved you – and you killed him!"

Aragorn swallowed. "Gimli," he said. "Gimli, it wasn't me. I swear to you, I never –" he stopped as his throat constricted on the lie. Because, truly, he _had _hurt Legolas. The memories had haunted him in every hour both waking and asleep these past five days: the feel of the Elf held captive beneath him, the writhe of his hips between Aragorn's legs, the taste of his sweat, the scent of his fear.

_Estel, please. Please, you're hurting me._

"I didn't mean it," Aragorn whispered. "I never meant to hurt him."

Gimli was shaking, his hands clenched on the handle of his axe. "All those days," he said. "All those nights – did you think we did not see? The way you looked at him, the way you kept him close – all your talk of control, and loyalty, and power – well he was loyal to you, Aragorn, and he gave you power over him – and this is the result! Legolas is _dying._ _You murdered him!_"

Aragorn shook his head. "It was the Corsair," he said. "He . . . infiltrated the palantír. He made me think those things. He attacked Legolas."

Gimli snorted. Faramir had been listening closely, his brow furrowed. Now he lifted his head. "I examined the palantír of Orthanc," he said. "I found no evidence of any outside presence, my lord. None."

"I do not know how he did it!" Aragorn said. "I only know that it is so. Seize him! Ask him about it!"

"We searched Captain Dragaer and his party when they arrived," Aelon spoke up. "There was no palantír among them."

"Then he left it behind with his army!" Aragorn cried. "We are wasting time while they gather to attack!"

"There are scouts all along the perimeter of the Rammas Echor," Faramir said. "They saw the Corsairs bringing Lord Legolas to Minas Tirith. They saw the single boat that they arrived on. They have seen no evidence of an army."

"_I _have seen it," Aragorn said.

"In the palantír," Faramir said. At Aragorn's nod he continued. "The same palantír that the Corsair controls?"

Aragorn hesitated, feeling the ground suddenly unstable beneath him. "He must have been away from it when I looked," he said slowly. "Yes, it was after he left it behind that Legolas showed me."

"_Legolas _showed you?" Faramir was incredulous. "Lord Legolas is unconscious!"

"He revived once," Gimli said. His voice was grim. "And he contacted Aragorn with that stone in Denethor's tomb. And afterward he was worse than before – he said that Aragorn was too strong for him, that Aragorn hurt him. Again."

Faramir put a hand to his head. "I . . . why would he do that? And how? The palantír of Minas Tirith is blind. Even the strongest Men cannot master it – and Legolas is dying."

Aragorn felt near the breaking point. He pushed aside the guilt that threatened to overwhelm him at the thought of what he had done to his friend and forced himself to focus on the here and now.

"We will answer all these questions in time," he said. "But now there are more urgent matters. We must stop the Corsair and his men."

Faramir looked at him. "Always there are more urgent matters," he said. His voice was soft. "Always there are questions that cannot be answered. You will forgive me, King Elessar, but I will have these questions answered _now_." He turned to Aelon. "Send someone to find Captain Dragaer. And put a guard on that palantír in the Tombs."

He addressed Aragorn again. "You are exhausted, my lord. You must rest."

Aragorn shook his head. "I told you, there is no time! Arrest the Corsair and his men now and see to the defenses."

No one moved. Aragorn looked around at them all. "I gave you an order!"

And it was then, as he said it, that he realized the truth of his position. The men were not looking at him, but at Faramir.

He swallowed. "Who is lord in Minas Tirith?"

Faramir stepped forward and reached as if to touch his arm. "Come with us, King Elessar."

Aragorn jerked away. "I asked you a question! Who commands Gondor?"

Faramir dropped his hands to his sides. His grey eyes were clear and looked unflinchingly into Aragorn's. "The men have sworn allegiance to Her Majesty, Queen Undómiel."

He may as well have punched Aragorn in the stomach. Aragorn's knees weakened, his head reeled. "Arwen," he breathed. "Arwen . . . _Tinúviel_ . . . what have you done?"

"Come with us," Faramir said again.

Aragorn scarcely heard him. "I must see her," he said.

There was a clink of metal as Gimli stepped close. "You'll not be seeing her," he said. "After what you've done, you'll not be coming near her, nor Legolas, ever again."

"But I told you –" Aragorn began, and stopped. He looked from Gimli's fierce gaze to Faramir, to Aelon, to the surrounding men. They did not believe him. None of them believed him.

"Your Majesty, you _must _come with us," Faramir said softly. "Please. Do not make me arrest you in a public street."

"I came back," Aragorn said. "I came back to save them."

"I've seen what your salvation is," Gimli said. Something cold and sharp pressed against Aragorn's inner thigh, and he caught his breath. Standing frozen, not daring to move his head, he cast his eyes down and met the Dwarf's baleful glare.

"Give me a reason," Gimli growled. The bite of steel slid another inch up Aragorn's leg. "Go on."

"The Corsairs are under guard," Faramir said. He laid a restraining hand on Gimli's shoulder. "Come to the citadel, lord, and we will hear your explanation there."

Raised nearly on tiptoe, Aragorn nodded. Gimli grunted and stepped back. Aragorn dared to breathe again.

At a signal from Faramir the soldiers retreated, clearing a path through the street. Faramir led the way, and Aragorn followed with Aelon close behind. He ignored the whispers of the people who craned their necks to see him pass.

He had returned in time. But it seemed that saving Gondor was going to be more difficult than he had thought.

*~*~*

The citadel servants had been busy.

In the half hour since Elessar had been spotted on the Pelennor Fields a little-used corner of the citadel had seen frantic activity. A bright copper bath steamed gently before the fire lit to ward off the chill of the coming evening. A table was set with meat and drink. The bed was aired and the linens fresh.

But there were no windows in this room, which backed into the side of the mountain. The walls were thick cut stone without a chink or crack between them. The door was solid oak, three inches thick, and locked from the outside.

Faramir stood back as Aelon escorted the King into the small bedchamber. Elessar had gone quietly this far, averting Faramir's fears of a public scene. But now he halted.

"What of the Council?"

Faramir looked at him. Aragorn's clothes hung on his lean frame, so tattered and mud-splattered that the Tree insignia was barely discernable upon his chest. The rents of his tunic gaped open, revealing abrasions and bruises on his skin. His hair fell in matted tangles past his face, and his beard was unkempt. Even as he stood he swayed upon his feet, and his face was deeply lined beneath its mask of dirt. Faramir wondered how long it had been since he had last eaten or slept. But there was warning in his eyes.

"You must rest first, my lord," Faramir said. "You have had a trying journey. The Council will still be there when you have recovered."

"Morgoth's Void, Faramir, do not patronize me!" Aragorn said. "I told you, there is no time! The Corsairs are coming _now!_"

Faramir hesitated. "Where is Gondor's army, lord?"

Aragorn blinked. "They are coming. Behind me – I told Éomer to follow me."

Faramir nodded. "Then doubtless they will be here soon. We have the Corsair and his men under guard. There is a watch upon the city walls. We are not defenseless, sire, nor are we lax in our vigilance. Minas Tirith is safe."

Aragorn looked away for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was soft. "Faramir, I know that you have Gondor's best interests at heart. I know that you will do what is necessary to protect our people." He looked back, and his eyes were full of anguish. "Please. You must believe me. This Corsair captain is ruthless. What he did to Legolas was just the beginning. What he intends for him, for Arwen, for our people . . . he will destroy them all. I know it. He was in my mind – I _know what he will do._"

Faramir stood still. He saw the sincerity written in every line of Elessar's body, the desperation. Whatever else might be true, or not, the King believed every word that he was saying.

Just as he had believed it when he had told them of the spies in Minas Tirith. Just as he had believed it when he had led the invasion of Harad. Just as he had believed it when he had tried to kill Faramir in the Tower.

Faramir remembered the glitter of Elessar's eyes when he had looked on Éowyn in Faramir's arms. He remembered the helplessness he had felt then, the sick knowledge that he would do the King's command not because it was right, but because his wife and child would suffer if he did not. He remembered Éowyn's grief and rage in the dungeon as she faced one fight she could not win, and knew that all her strength and valor could not save her husband from the gallows.

In this moment Aragorn appeared closer to the noble King that Faramir remembered than he had in nigh over a year. But what would happen if he were freed? What would he do when they were again at his mercy? How could Faramir take that chance?

Faramir looked at Aragorn and realized that they were not helpless any longer. And it would be long before he again gave this man power over the people he loved.

He stepped back. "Your sword, please."

Aelon moved forward. Aragorn glanced from him to Faramir and made a wordless sound of frustration. "Faramir listen to me!"

Faramir shook his head. "I am sorry," he said. "Your sword."

"He will kill Éowyn," Aragorn said. "He will take her child as hostage against Rohan and he will murder her."

Faramir froze. For a long moment there was no sound but Aragorn's ragged breathing. The guards around them stood absolutely still. Then Faramir stepped toward the King, his hands clenching into fists.

"You dare," he said. "You who took the army away, you who left us weakened, you who drove the men to the brink of civil war, you who hurt us – you _dare _to say that to me? My wife is safe. _I _will keep her so. And you will not threaten us again."

"I'm trying to _warn _you," Aragorn said. He unbuckled Andúril from his waist and gave it to Aelon. "Do with me as you wish, I will not resist. Only please _listen _to me. I am trying to keep you safe."

Faramir snorted. "Keep us safe. Yes, how often you have said that before, my lord. Once I might even have believed it."

"Faramir, wait!" Aragorn lunged forward as he turned away, and Aelon caught him with an arm braced across his chest.

Faramir hesitated. Aragorn looked frantic. "Tell me – where is Legolas?"

Faramir thought of the Elf as he had last seen him. He thought of that time in the Tower, when he had been certain that he would die, and Legolas had saved him. He thought of Elessar's fingers twining in the Elf's hair, and of the spasm of pain that had crossed Legolas' face as the King brought their heads close together.

If Aragorn was right and the Corsair truly was responsible for Legolas' injuries . . . then the Elf had still left Gondor's army to wander alone for some reason, and he still was somehow weakened enough that the Captain had overpowered him without killing him or being seriously injured himself.

How likely was it, Faramir wondered, that _two _Men would have dark designs upon the Elf?

"I will not tell you," he said at last. "Lord Legolas is no longer your concern."

For the first time in his life Faramir turned his back on his King, and walked away.

*~*~*

The Queen was waiting for him. Wearily, with a longing thought of Éowyn and the supper that awaited him in his rooms, Faramir turned his steps toward the Royal Chambers.

Arwen was pacing her study when he arrived. She waved him to a chair without breaking stride in her circuit. Faramir hesitated, but the Queen was clearly too agitated to sit down herself. In the end exhaustion won out over propriety. Faramir sat.

Arwen completed another length of the room and stopped next to the fire, her back to Faramir. "How is he?"

"Tired, my lady, and rather the worse for wear, but a good night's sleep and a meal will do much to correct that. He has ridden hard these past few days." And Aragorn had arrived on a different horse, Faramir thought belatedly. He had not paid attention to it at the time, but the King had been attached to Hasufel, the horse he had acquired in Rohan. Given the choice, he would not ride another. That was another small mystery to be explained.

"But how is _he_?" Arwen turned to look at Faramir. "In his mind, is he – is he still as he was before he left?"

Faramir sighed. "I do not know, my lady. He did not fight us, but neither did he accept responsibility for what he has done. Now he claims another threat, that the Corsairs are bent on invading Minas Tirith."

Arwen's eyebrows shot up. "The _Corsairs?_ They saved Legolas' life!"

"They say that they did," Faramir pointed out. "We have no real evidence, my lady. It is their word against the King's."

"But what purpose could they have?" Arwen asked. "There are less than a dozen of them in the city. What harm could they do?"

"I do not know," Faramir said again. He rubbed his hands over his face. "We detained the Captain for questioning, again. There are guards on the rest of them."

"Arrest them," Arwen said. "Lock them in the dungeons. If there is any chance that they hurt Legolas –"

"How?" Faramir said. "Why would Legolas leave the army camp? You have seen him fight on the practice fields – do you believe a few Men could overpower him without injury? He had no arrow wounds. What is more –" he took a deep breath. "Gimli reports that Legolas regained consciousness for a brief time – that he spoke fearfully of Elessar. And Elessar _knew _of Legolas' injuries. He was anxious to see him."

"No . . ." Arwen looked stricken. Long minutes ticked away as she considered the import of this news. Finally she turned away, bowing her head down against the mantelpiece. "The healer said he was drugged," she whispered. "And Aragorn carries poppy in his pack."

"The trial is tomorrow," Faramir said. "Let us withhold judgment until then. I would hear what the Corsair captain has to say on the matter."

"And his men?"

"I will bow to your will, Your Majesty," Faramir said. "But I am loathe to be harsh unless we have some evidence against them. They are ambassadors of sorts, and this may be our best chance to forge real friendship with their people. I would use the opportunity to make peace, if it is possible."

Arwen stood silent for a long moment. Finally she nodded without looking up. "If the scouts of Rammas Echor find any sign – anything – of a threat then you will arrest the Corsairs?"

"At once, Your Majesty."

"Then I will trust to your judgment."

"Thank you, my lady." Faramir rose. He was at the door when Arwen spoke again. "Did Aragorn – did the King ask for me?"

Faramir paused. "Yes, my lady. He wished to see you – and he was concerned that you were safe."

Arwen turned to look at him, and Faramir saw the tears that threatened, perilously close. But she did not let them fall. "Do you think that I should go to him?"

Faramir swallowed. "My lady," he said. "You are as strong as any warrior I have ever known. But to see a loved one imprisoned . . . to cause that imprisonment and to uphold it despite his threats or pleas . . . it would break the strongest man. I would not have you face that, if I could prevent it."

Arwen drew a shuddering breath. Her eyes closed. "There is still the trial tomorrow," she said. "You cannot protect me from that."

There was a pause, and then Arwen opened her eyes. "Thank you," she said. "Get some rest, Faramir. Your lady will be wanting to see you."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Faramir said. He bowed and retreated, and left the Queen standing there alone.


	35. That Which Survives

**Warning:** This chapter contains disturbing imagery and makes reference to rape used as a weapon in war.

l

I have a difficult task ahead of me and I have dedicated my whole life to it.

– Franz Kafka, _The Castle_

Chapter 34: That Which Survives

The setting sun lit the scattered clouds in crimson flame and stretched long shadows from the hills across the Pelennor Fields. Leaning over the courtyard wall high upon uppermost level, Dragaer thought that it looked as though dark fingers were reaching across the land to grasp the White City.

It was an appropriate image. They were close now: so close that he had to concentrate to keep the triumph from showing on his face as he moved among the weak, placid fools who populated the city.

A few more hours, he thought. Then he would show them what power truly was. When their city was in flames, their men dead and their women captive, when their children were orphaned and their Queen imprisoned – then he would show Elessar the fruits of his arrogance and force him to drink deep of the cup that he had brewed for himself.

O he would see the King of Gondor on his knees before him. And he would hear Aragorn beg, and he would see him cry, and he would only hurt him all the more. He would bind Aragorn in chains and force him to watch as Dragaer raped his wife before his eyes. Or – a thrill ran through him at the thought – he would bring the Elf Prince and the Queen before him and force him to choose which Dragaer would take.

Dragaer breathed out slowly to compose himself. He was trembling, his heart beating wildly beneath his breast. But softly – he must go softly now. The bird was very nearly in the snare, but a misstep would send it winging out of reach forever. Already there were too many loose threads, too many chanced occurrences that but for Dragaer's quick thinking could have turned disastrous.

First Aragorn had proved frustratingly difficult to corrupt, and frighteningly powerful in his strength of will. Dragaer had never encountered anyone like him, and it had taken all his hard-won skill merely to avoid detection in the palantír. For many months he could only watch as Aragorn maneuvered the seeing stone with enviable ease. It had been long before he dared to insinuate anything to that formidable mind, and longer still before he chanced the suggestion that was foremost in his plan: that Aragorn humble the proud beauty that was his Queen.

The King's reaction to that had been so violent that Dragaer had feared he would abandon the palantír entirely. When at last he had returned Dragaer had held back, afraid of doing anything to drive him away again. He saw the thought to destroy the palantír in Aragorn's mind, and weeks passed before it faded.

Dragaer took the lesson to heart. Powerful though the seeing stone's seduction was, Aragorn was stronger. He could not compel the man directly, and he could not depend upon the palantír's attraction to always overcome his resistance.

He had been close to despair then, and thought that he would have to resort to simple ambush and capture of Aragorn alone. It was an unsatisfactory prospect, for at best it would mean the King's physical pain and death – far less than the complete degradation that his heart craved. Justice required that Gondor's King witness the destruction of his home and people, the death of those he loved and the betrayal of those he trusted – but how?

And then the answer came in the most surprising form of a pale-haired Elven Prince. It was chance that Dragaer saw him in Elessar's mind: chance that he realized the significance of his place in the King's heart. For this love was hidden deep and no less great than the devotion that Aragorn felt for his Queen. And it did not inspire the reactive fury in him when Dragaer cautiously again insinuated the suggestion in his mind.

He had found the chink in the King's armor. And so he began to make his plans anew.

The sun was completely behind the hills and the sky had faded to the colorless hue that precedes nightfall. Dragaer glanced across the courtyard toward the citadel. His guard would have exhausted the search of his room by now, and if he did not think to look for him outside then the Steward's lackeys certainly would. He considered going to meet them indoors and discarded the idea. It would seem more innocent if he were found here enjoying the evening breeze rather than returning from some unknown errand out of his keeper's sight.

He had taken care to appear a model prisoner – or guest, as the supercilious Gondorians called him, thinking he did not see the meaning behind their careful words and 'honor guard'. He had instructed his men to do the same – with leeway granted for the occasional tavern brawl: only natural for sailors on leave. It made it so much easier to evade or distract the guards when he had need to work alone, as when he spoke to Gondor's Queen that afternoon.

And _that _was the only thing that had gone right since Elessar had taken the armies into Harad. A few minutes more, he was certain, and he would have swayed her completely. The doubts were already in her mind, seeded by evidence of Elessar's crimes, and Dragaer had simply encouraged them to grow. She would condemn her husband on the morrow. He was almost sure of it.

But he would have been much more certain if he had had a few more minutes with her. _How _had Aragorn returned so soon? When he had last observed the King – carefully, as he was always careful on the rare occasion when he was forced to initiate contact with the palantír – the man had been a wreck. He was consumed by guilt for his assault on the Elf, near delirious from lack of sleep and implanted paranoia. He had not seemed coherent, much less capable of action.

It all stemmed from his failure to carry through the rape of the Elf. If he had done that one action then all his vaunted nobility, his strength of will, his damnably strong convictions of right and wrong would have been stripped away. Mind and spirit would have crumbled, and the shell that remained would have truly belonged to Dragaer. Then it would be a simple matter, as Dragaer first planned, to slip into the camp with a few men and take the Elf's body from him.

But at the crucial moment Aragorn had faltered, and Dragaer had been forced to change tactics. Thank Eru the Elf had left the camp on his own. He had proved fully as stubborn and frustratingly loyal as Aragorn was morally tiresome, but this last assault had proved too much even for him.

His breaking was the only good thing to come out of the entire debacle, Dragaer thought. He had hoped to watch Elessar take him . . . but even that would have been but a pale shadow of the experience of doing it himself.

He had used rape as a weapon before in war – it was an expedient method of both demoralizing the enemy and exercising his own men's pent up energy. Before the War he had taken his fleet on raids all down the southern coast, and it was not long before his was the greatest and most feared of all the pirate crews. It was remarkable how quickly the most stubborn of town governors would cave once you captured his wife or daughter – or even better if you could manage it, his son.

But the Elf was different. Dragaer had never before encountered a being so determined, so strong, so defiant, who kept on fighting even while he was breaking. He found himself playing the scene over again in his mind during odd moments – remembering the sound of his cries, the smell of sweat and rage and the blood that pricked from the ropes at his wrists and ankles and trickled from his body when Dragaer finished. He had not begged. Not once, in the entire encounter, had he pleaded to save himself. But afterward, when unconsciousness took him, Dragaer had seen his tears.

It was not just the physical act that compelled him to indulge in memory. The Elf's beauty made his ruin all the more enjoyable, but Dragaer had lain with handsome men before. No, there was something else: an intangible, indescribable sense that in taking this Elf he had violated the foundations of Middle-earth itself. Elves were beyond the reach of mortal Men: they were immortal, as untouchable and unfathomable as the gods. Dragaer had broken and defiled one of Eru's Firstborn; he had marred the very order of Creation. The earth should quake beneath him, the heavens should split and the Valar should scream vengeance for what he had done.

But they did not. He wondered if this were how Ar-Pharazôn1 had felt, when he first bound one of the Eldar upon his black altar and raised his knife, and waited for the lightning strike that never came. He had taken that which belonged to the gods, and the gods were powerless to stop him. The knowledge intoxicated him, thrilled him, and he wondered: when he took Elessar's queen would she fight as strongly, would her cries fill him with the same triumph, would he feel the power of her life-force course through him as it left her broken body?

Perhaps. But from Aragorn's mind Dragaer knew that her fate was already sealed, and he did not think it could compare with the taking of a truly immortal life. His thoughts turned again to the Prince, Legolas.

He should be dead. That was another loose end, and it made Dragaer more nervous than all the others. When he had first finished with the Elf he had feared that he would not survive the trip up the river to Minas Tirith. He had seemed so pale, and so cold: his flesh heavy as though the spirit that animated it had already fled. Dragaer had breathed a sigh of relief when they got inside the city with him alive, and expected to hear word that night that the Elf had died.

But the word did not come. And as the days passed Dragaer began to fear that it would never come. Somehow, improbably, Legolas survived.

And now Aragorn had returned too soon. Too soon, for Dragaer's army was not yet within the gates, and the evidence against the King, while damning, was still circumstantial. Dragaer was torn, for the trial would be sweet, and he longed to see Elessar stand condemned and reviled before his people. But that trial would end with both Dragaer and the King under arrest, for even Gondor's idiot Steward could not fail to suspect the sea captain who had last had contact with the Elf.

If Legolas awoke and gave testimony then even Dragaer's army might not be swift enough to save him. Vengeance demanded that Elessar see and know what Dragaer had taken from him, but it also rather depended on Dragaer remaining alive to take it.

He had to kill the Elf. He knew that. He had known from the beginning that theirs was a death dance, and if the Prince did not die of his injuries then Dragaer must go to him, cover his mouth and nose and force the breath from his body, silence the beat of his immortal heart.

But the Dwarf was with him. Legolas' death was one thing – it would be accepted, as everyone accepted that he was dying now. But there was no way to make the Dwarf's death seem natural – _and the stunted creature would not leave the Elf alone!_ He had entered the Houses of Healing with the Prince, and though Dragaer's men could not keep a constant watch, by all evidence he had not come out again.

It was infuriating, but for the moment Dragaer had no alternative but to wait and hope that the Elf did not wake. And with each hour that passed they drew nearer to the dawn when the city gates would swing open for the market, and then it would not matter if Legolas survived or not.

Indeed, as the time grew shorter Dragaer found himself hoping that the Elf _would _survive those few more hours. Not conscious, of course, but alive. He had to catch himself from slipping into fantasies in which he held all three of them captive: Elessar and his Queen and the Prince, and he envisioned the horrors he could inflict upon Aragorn once he had power over the two people dearest to him.

With that sort of leverage he would not have to kill Aragorn for a long, long time. And – his heart quickened at the thought – what if the stories of the Elves were not true? From the tales he had expected Legolas to die, or fade, or whatever they called it, within hours of the rape. He had not originally thought he would survive Elessar's attack, and had counted on the army to provide witnesses to the murder. But Legolas had _not _died, for all he seemed close to it . . . what if he could recover? He seemed strong enough . . . what if he could be habituated to it? He was _immortal. _Dragaer could keep him, and use him whenever he wished, _forever_.

Dragaer drew a shuddering breath and clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms. This was folly. He was mad to think it, he knew. The Elf had served his purpose: he must be disposed of. Whatever Dragaer's personal desires he would not risk everything he had worked so hard to achieve for mere lust.

He would kill the Elf at the first opportunity, he promised himself. In the meanwhile . . . boot-heels clattered in the stone courtyard, and he turned to see the imbecile guards of the citadel hurrying toward him. He looked back at the darkening hills and permitted himself one swift, fierce grin, and then composed his features into an expression of innocence.

He was turning back to face the coming guards when something caught his eye. He stopped, and leaning over the courtyard wall he stared down into the shadowy plain. A large party of horsemen was crossing the fields to Minas Tirith.

*~*~*

In the blackness of the void, a spark flared. It flashed down a shining wire and went out. The filament glowed in its wake. Fragmented memory – a gleam of silver, the smell of pine – lit a second filament, and then a third, and winked out. Darkness closed in again, and only the after-image of thought remained, fading purple in the black. So it remained until the next spark.

Tiny, feeble lights they were: near smothered by the dark. But each one strengthened the frail wire upon which it ran, and though it glowed for only an instant, it was always succeeded by another. In their hundreds they wove a spider-web shell around the fractured spirit, capturing it and sheltering it from the crushing void without.

Painfully, desperately, Legolas clung to life. There was no time in the void, and he found shelter in memory far from the agony that had driven him here, hidden deep where the storms of pain, humiliation and betrayal could not reach. As he did so the sparks grew brighter, stronger, and came faster, spinning down their threads, shining in the darkness.

_The mirrored top spun over the stone floor, shining, reflecting a dozen dazzling images of the lamps overhead. Legolas held his breath, watching, and when the top finally came to rest he laughed. He ran to pick it up and set it spinning again._

_A door opened. "There you are!" a voice exclaimed._

_Legolas looked up. "Farothlin, watch!" he said. "See what this does!"_

_His brother crouched down, balancing on his toes as he examined the top. The whirling mirrors caught flashes of his narrow, high-cheekboned face and dark hair. "Where did you get this?"_

_"No one was using it."_

_"Legolas." Farothlin looked stern. Legolas sighed._

_"It was in one of the boxes that the Naugrim gave Father. But he wasn't using it, honest."_

_"Do not say Naugrim, Legolas, it is not polite."_

_"_Father_ says N –"_

_"Yes, I know, but you are not him. Would you want Mother to hear you talking like that?"_

_Legolas scowled. Farothlin caught the top and rose to his feet, cradling it in his hand. Legolas jumped up. "That's mine!"_

_"I am sure that Father will give you permission to play with it, if you ask him. But now you must come and take your bath. Nurse is looking for you."_

_Legolas hung back as his brother led the way down the stone passageway. Servants balanced on ladders were stringing fresh green branches through the limbs of the carved stone trees that formed the walls and ceiling. Their pine fragrance filled the air._

_Farothlin paused at the corridor junction and looked back. "Come along, Legolas."_

_Legolas increased his pace fractionally, scuffing his feet along the floor. "I do not wish to take my bath. I have not been outside _all day._ I am not dirty."_

_"Oh ho, look who's a cranky one," Farothlin laughed. "Well, if you do not wish to take your bath then I suppose you do not have to. You may stay in your room with Nurse while Tatharin and I –"_

_"Tatharin is here?" Legolas forgot that he was cross and ran to catch his brother up. "When did he arrive? Why did he not come to see me? How long will he be here?"_

_"He arrived two hours ago, he did not see you because you were being naughty and hiding from Nurse in the cloakroom, and he will stay for the festival tonight. His patrol must go out again tomorrow."_

_"Tomorrow? But –"_

_"Legolas."_

_Legolas closed his mouth. He was almost six now, and he knew better than to complain about the way that things must be. But that did not stop him from thinking to himself, _I wish that Tatharin did not have to go away. I wish that he could captain the Home Guard, like Farothlin, or be Troop Commander, like Sídhan.

_"Is Ellomë coming also?"_

_Farothlin held out his hand, and Legolas took it. "Maybe next year, little leaf. Now come, this is a special day for you."_

_"Yes," Legolas nodded. "Tonight I am going to stay up to see the lighting of the Winter Tree. Nurse said that I might, if I was good and if I stopped pestering her about it. Which is what I did," he added virtuously._

_"Is that so?" Farothlin said. "Very well then, so you shall. But first I must get you ready to see the King."_

_So it was that forty minutes later Legolas was standing outside of the Elvenking's study, waiting to be admitted. He was dressed in his best green tunic, which fell almost to his knees and was belted at his waist. He liked the belt, which was silver and matched the embroidered vines upon the sleeves and neck of the tunic. He did not like the embroidery, which itched, and he did not like his matching silver circlet _at all._ It always felt as if it were about to slide down over his eyes, and he could not run or climb while he was wearing it. He had started to protest when Nurse took it out of its case, but just then Farothlin came in to take Legolas to see the King, and Nurse told him to put on his circlet too. He took it out of his pocket and then when Nurse wasn't looking he crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Legolas, and that made Legolas giggle. He did not mind his circlet so much if Farothlin had to wear one too. But he told himself that when he grew up he would not wear it anymore, and no one could make him._

_"Prince Legolas," the guard said in a loud voice, holding open the door. He smiled at Legolas. "You can go in now," he whispered._

_Legolas smiled back. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly through the door, holding his head very straight to keep the circlet from slipping. Going to see the King was not the same as going to see Father. Legolas had run in and out of Father's study several times that morning to tell him about the decorations that were going up in the Great Hall and in the family rooms, but now he must walk and wait for Cullas to announce him._

_All of his princely resolve vanished, however, when he entered the room. Father was sitting in his big chair on the far side of the room and Mother was sitting beside him, and standing around them were Farothlin and Sídhan and –_

_"Tatharin!" Legolas cried, and ran forward._

_His brother laughed and caught Legolas before he could crash into him, swinging him up and around in a circle. "Little leaf, look at you! I think you have grown three inches since I saw you last."_

_"I can ride Wicka all by myself now," Legolas told him. "And I can climb to the very top of the Big Oak, and I can read stories if someone helps with the long words, and I can write letters if Father draws the shapes for me first – I'll show you!"_

_He dashed toward Father's desk, but a cough from behind drew him up short. "Legolas, wait," Mother said. "You may show Tatharin later. Now you need to come here."_

_Legolas turned. "Yes Mother," he said. He walked back to stand next to Tatharin, but Mother motioned him closer. She straightened his circlet, which had fallen askew, and then she tucked a loose tendril of his hair into the braid that went down his back. Legolas suffered these ministrations quietly, but when she licked her thumb and reached to wipe his cheek he squirmed away._

_Mother laughed. "All right then," she said. "Now go and stand there," she motioned toward the center of the carpet, "and see if you can greet your King and Queen properly."_

_"Yes Mother." Legolas walked to a place in front of the two chairs. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head, careful to keep the circlet from slipping off again. "Your Majesties," he recited, "Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Greenwood, at your service."_

_"Well done," Mother whispered._

_"Rise Legolas, and come forward," Father said. He did not smile. He was wearing his 'king face', as Legolas thought of it. Both he and Mother were dressed in their court robes, their winter crowns of holly carefully trimmed so that the sharp leaves did not prick their skin._

_Legolas stood and moved to the right side of Father's chair. Farothlin winked at him and then looked straight ahead. He and Sídhan and Tatharin were standing very still next to Mother's chair._

_"Tonight is the beginning of the Winter Festival," Father told him. "Do you know what we will do to celebrate?"_

_"Yes, Sire," Legolas said. "You will light the Tree, and then there will be the feast, and music, and the Solstice Dance through the trees. Nurse said that I might stay up to see the Tree," he added hopefully._

_"Yes you shall," Father said. "In fact, little leaf, you will have a very important part to play tonight."_

_He took a silver knife from under a fold of his robe. Legolas held his breath. It looked just like the daggers that his brothers wore, except that where Tatharin's knife had a little willow tree carved at the base of its handle, and Farothlin's had a tiny harp, this one had a small leaf, curled slightly at the edges._

_"Do you remember why we light the Winter Tree, Legolas?"_

_Legolas concentrated. He wanted very badly to touch the little knife that Father held, to see if it were really as sharp as it looked, and it was hard to think about anything else right now. He put his hands behind his back._

_"The Tree tells people that even when it is dark, like now, we still have light. It means that bad things can't reach us here."_

_"Very good," Father said. Mother beamed._

_"We are safe here, but we must fight very hard to keep the bad things away," Father said. "Do you know what they are?"_

_"Thranduil," Mother said quietly._

_Father looked at her. "He already knows," he said._

_Legolas did know. "Orcs, and spiders, and bad wolves," he said. "And the goblins in the mountains. Ellomë is fighting those."_

_"Yes," Father said. He sighed. "This is a very dark time for our people. Some are wondering if we will ever succeed. They think that perhaps we should give up the forest, and go where the evil cannot reach us."_

_Legolas felt cold. Yesterday, he remembered, a big group of people had come to see Father. They had been very angry about something that Legolas did not understand, but he thought it might have had something to do with the people who had gone missing in the South, the ones that Sídhan's patrols had not been able to find._

_"I do not want to give up," Legolas said. "I would miss the Big Oak, and the river, and the mountain. This is our home."_

_"You are right," Father said. "We have been driven from our homes before, but we will not be now. The Sindar may not understand, but the Avari and the Laiquendi surely do."2_

_"The forest depends on us," Mother said. "As do the people of Eriador."_

_Legolas looked from Father to Mother and back again. They expected something of him, but he was not sure what. "I am going to be a warrior like Farothlin when I grow up," he said. "Father, you do not need to go away. Just wait a little while until I am bigger. Then I will help you fight, and we will win."_

_Father laughed, his big laugh that made Legolas feel warm inside. His brothers laughed also, and Mother smiled, but she was blinking very fast. She looked as if she also wanted to complain sometimes about the way things had to be._

_"You are already a great help to me, little leaf," Father said. "And tonight you will be a help to our people. You will give them hope."_

_Legolas' legs were beginning to tire from standing still for so long. He felt confused, and a little cross from all this talk that he did not understand. "How will I do that?"_

_"You are too young for a proper coming of age ceremony," Father said. "But your spirit is strong, and your mother and I love you very much. Our people know that. Tonight I want you to stand with me and your brothers in front of them. I am going to give you this knife, your oath blade, and then I will tell our people that as they have given us their loyalty, so we have given them our lives. Everything that I have, every one whom I love, is given to defend them and our land. Young as you are, you will be . . . the ring that seals our troth, so to speak." Father looked at him solemnly for a moment and then one corner of his mouth quirked up. "We will have to think of something else for your coming of age ceremony."_

_Legolas swallowed. He still didn't understand what Father meant, but it sounded important. He wanted to make Father proud of him. But he was going to be given a knife, a real one, and he knew what that meant. Farothlin had told him what happened when a warrior took a new knife. He felt hollow inside._

_In a small voice he asked, "Will it hurt?"_

_Father opened his arms and Legolas climbed quickly up into his lap. Father wrapped his arms around him and rested his cheek on top of Legolas' head. His hair fell down past Legolas' shoulders, making a soft golden curtain around him. Father took one of Legolas' hands in his and opened it, so that Legolas' little palm was resting in Father's big one._

_"I will take the knife and make a small cut, right there," Father touched the pad of skin beneath Legolas' thumb. "It will be very fast, and yes, it will hurt. Then I will touch the flat of the blade to the cut, like this." He pressed the cool metal very lightly against Legolas' hand. "I will say some words, and I will put the knife in its sheath and put it on your belt, here." He touched Legolas' silver belt, just above his right hip. "Afterward I will put a bandage on the cut, and it will not hurt for very long. Do you think you can be brave for me while I do this?"_

_Legolas bit his lip. He wanted to have the knife, and he wanted to be brave for Father. He wanted to help the people and the forest too, although he was still not sure how this would do that. But he did not want to hurt._

_Very quietly he said, "That is what warriors do. They let themselves be hurt, so that other people don't have to be. Is that right?"_

_Father did not answer for awhile. Legolas could hear his heartbeat, solid against his ear. He could smell the forest scent that always clung to Father's skin and hair, no matter how long he had been indoors. It was quiet._

_Then Father took a deep breath. "Yes, little leaf. That is what warriors do. It is what princes do as well."_

_"Then I will be twice as brave, Father, because I am a prince and I am going to be a warrior too."_

In the void, the sheltering cage was growing stronger. Legolas turned from memory, and considered. He could think more clearly now, and the electric light of his thoughts lit the mesh that anchored his _faer_ and illuminated the barrier beyond the void.

The storms there still battered against the emptiness within, and the void was shrinking under the onslaught. There was no time in this place, but that did not change the fact that soon he would be forced to act.

If the fragile web of love and duty that he had woven was not strong enough, it would tear open under the assault and his spirit would escape the circles of Arda, forever. If it _were _strong enough, then he would be plunged back into the hurricane of pain, sickness and humiliation that he had come here to escape. He did not yet remember what had caused that hurt, but he sensed that the memory was very close to him now.

He could choose to break open the shell now and flee, to Mandos if the Vala would have him, or simply into nothingness. With the howl of the storm growing ever louder, fading into nothing seemed an attractive thing.

Or he could fight, and anchor himself again to a body that felt like an instrument of torture. He still might die that way. Or he might live, trapped until the world's breaking, in agony.

_I will live to kill you myself._

The words still glowed hot within him, and they too lit and strengthened the filaments that bound him to this world. But now they were joined by others, words that he had forgotten in his shame.

_That is what warriors do. It is what princes do as well._

And he remembered still others, promises made to an Elven Queen who had become mortal, to a Dwarf who stood steadfast at the side of an Elf. And most of all, an oath made to a man who might no longer be worthy of it . . . but that did not alter the bond laid upon an Elven soul.

_For the folk of the Great Wood . . . and for the love of the Lord of the White Tree._

In a place without direction, Legolas gathered the strength of his will and turned to face the pain and memory that divided him from the waking world.

The barrier screamed with the voice of one that was breaking in body, mind and soul.

Legolas steadied himself, and then went out to meet it.

*~*~*

Dragaer contrived to be in the citadel entrance hall when the Steward came hurrying down to greet the horsemen's leader. Orders had been given to find shelter and stabling for the newcomers and their horses, and in the confusion of rushing soldiers and servants Dragaer was quite forgotten. He stood quietly, half-hidden behind the curve of the descending staircase, and watched.

The leader was of similar height and build to Faramir. As he stepped forward to grasp the Steward's forearm the hood of his cloak fell back, revealing a finely chiseled profile and shoulder-length black hair. Dragaer gritted his teeth. It was Imrahil, Gondor's southern lord. He had been a thorn in Umbar's side since long before the War, and his network of spies had made Dragaer's task five times harder than it should have been. On two occasions he had been forced to use the palantír, riding out with a search party himself to find and kill scouts that otherwise would have given the entire ruse away.

A dark-haired young woman ran through the crowded hall to throw her arms around the Prince, and Imrahil hugged her tightly in return. She would be his daughter, Lothíriel: the new Queen of Rohan. Dragaer recalled Amdir saying something about her when he had reported the date of the market opening. He seemed to have taken something of a fancy to the girl. Perhaps Dragaer would give her to Amdir and his men for a bit of fun after the battle. It might increase her value as a hostage if Imrahil and Éomer King knew that there were fates other than death that threatened her. And it would be suitable retribution for the headaches that her father had given him.

"I came as quickly as I could," Imrahil was saying. The small party was moving toward the stairs. They spoke quietly, so that Dragaer had to concentrate to pick out their words among the babble of voices around them. "I only regret that I could not bring more."

"Why is that?" Faramir asked. "And why did you come at all? We sent no message to Dol Amroth."

"Did not King Elessar tell you? He is here, is he not?"

"Yes, but . . ." Faramir ran a hand through his hair. "It is complicated. In any case he said nothing to us of Dol Amroth."

"H'm." Imrahil looked searchingly at the Steward. "I think you have much to tell me, nephew. But for my part, three days ago two of my scouts reported that King Elessar had crossed the river into Gondor's territory. He sent word to me that the army was behind him, and that I was to muster my Knights and follow him to Minas Tirith."

"Did you see the army?" Faramir asked. Dragaer held his breath.

"No," Imrahil replied. Dragaer relaxed again. "I had assumed that they took a different route than Elessar and came through Umbar and so north along the river. But if they are not here . . ."

"Why did you think that?" Faramir was frowning.

Imrahil shook his head. "A few days before I received Elessar's message one of my sources in Umbar arrived at Dol Amroth. He was badly burned and near death. He told me that Umbar was burning – that it had been attacked. I sent a full contingent of Knights to aid the battle – I would have gone myself but for my promise to guard the Harad Road. When I found no sign of Gondor and Rohan's army after Elessar passed through I assumed that it had also moved to counter the threat at Umbar."

"Did your source tell you who attacked the city?" They were climbing the stairs now. Dragaer pressed back into the shadows to keep from being seen.

"No," Imrahil said. "It was night, and they carried no flags or banners that he saw. The light of the flames was more of a distraction than an aid – particularly after he was injured. But he did say that they were cloaked, so that he could not see their faces. Whether that was due to their custom or simply so that they would not be identified he did not know."

"The Haradrim wear veils over their faces," Faramir muttered.

"A question of my own, if I may," Imrahil said. They had reached the top of the stairs, and there they paused. "Why did Elessar not lead the army himself to Umbar? He told my scouts that it was Minas Tirith that was under attack. Indeed I had feared that I had left myself without the resources to aid you, for I had only these fifty Knights remaining to come with me. But now I see that I am not needed after all. The city is at peace."

"Captain!"

Dragaer turned, annoyed. He had been so intent upon the conversation above that he had not noticed the approach of one of his own men. Amdir stood close by, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"Captain, what should we do? There are soldiers everywhere – we'll never get past them! We can't get to the gates –"

"Shut up!" Dragaer snapped. He grabbed the man's arm and hustled him away from the stairs, through the press of people and out into the courtyard. He pulled Amdir into an empty guard's station along the citadel wall.

"Nothing has changed," he snarled. "This is only a distraction – more for them than it is for us. Fifty Knights, that's all he's got. Add those to the five hundred guards that Elessar left here. That's _all._ We've got six thousand horsemen coming. Get those gates open and there'll be _nothing _that can stop them. It's a city to pillage, just like any other. Odds are you won't even see a soldier in battle, you lily-livered coward."

"But, the plan –"

"The plan is the same! Only difference is, you've got fifty more drinking partners tonight. They'll be fresh on leave, and for every one that wakes up with a hangover in the morning I'll give you a dollar of gold."

Amdir looked uncertain, but kept his doubts to himself. "Yes, Captain."

"Good. Now get the men out there. You can shake off the guards any time. And remember: don't come back to your rooms tonight. They're liable to try arresting us all if they get through the trial tomorrow, but there's no sense giving them the opportunity if they feel ambitious tonight."

"Yes, Captain. We'll wait until dawn, then?"

"Unless you want to try raising the portcullis by yourself."

Amdir gave a weak smile. He had started back toward the citadel when Dragaer called him back. "One more thing. If any of our men – any one – gets drunk tonight I will personally flay your skin from your bones and hang it on the city gate. Understood?"

Amdir gulped. "Yes, Captain."

"All right then. Go."

Amdir went. Dragaer moved in the opposite direction, out into the courtyard. The citadel entrance was flooded with light. People were scurrying over the steps on errands, or else clustering here and there to talk together. He walked away from the noise, out where the grass was soft and cool under his feet.

The night sky was spread with stars. Looking down over the circles of the city, Dragaer saw their fire mimicked in thousands of lantern lit windows. Minas Tirith was a galaxy unto itself, waiting to be conquered.

In the level just below him there stretched the bulky complex of the Houses of Healing, all dim grey stone and shadowy courtyards. He stared at it for several long minutes, and then slowly he began to smile.

l

l

A/N: The flashback to Legolas' childhood is set in the year 2460 of the Third Age, the year that Sauron returned to Dol Guldur. It was a dark time for Mirkwood indeed.

My assertions about Legolas' age and possible siblings are entirely my own and have no basis in canon, although there are some wonderfully well-written essays in support of the idea that he is 'young' for an Elf, perhaps between 500 and 700 years old.

Within the confines of my own fiction I have taken the liberty of suggesting that Thranduil had seven sons, all trained as warriors, of whom Legolas is the youngest. Four of Legolas' brothers are mentioned in this chapter. Two, who are not mentioned, were killed in the Battle of Dagorlad along with Oropher and two-thirds of Mirkwood's army.

Perhaps it is a bit cheeky to suggest that Thranduil matched Fëanor's feat in having seven sons. But if Fëanor, who lived in Aman under the blessing and protection of the Valar, had so many . . . then why not Thranduil, who after all rules Mirkwood, the one place in Middle-earth where I think that Elven immortality cannot be taken for granted.

* * *

1 Ar-Pharazôn: The last high king of Númenor, who coveted immortality and led his people to worship Morgoth. The Silmarillion states that he offered human sacrifice, victims taken from the Númenoreans who remained faithful to their friends the Eldar and to Ilúvatar. Whether he actually killed Elves in the same way might be a question for debate . . . but if he did not then I'm certain it was not for lack of trying.

2 _Avari_: The Unwilling, the name given to the Elves who did not answer the Valar's call.

_Laiquendi_: The Green-elves, whose history is given in the Silmarillion.


	36. Come the Dawn

"Every inch a king."

– William Shakespeare, _King Lear_

Chapter 35: Come the Dawn

Aragorn dipped water from the steaming bath and poured it over his head, allowing it to run down his neck and shoulders. The muscles of his back pulled painfully as he raised his arms. He scraped the crusted dirt and blood from an abrasion on his shoulder, hissing under his breath at the sting.

Every square inch of his body ached. He had shouted himself hoarse, but Aelon had taken the guard position outside his door, and his arguments and pleas yielded no response. Evidently the Captain was taking no chances with his King's security. Aragorn thought ruefully that when this was over he would have to reward the man's steadfastness, provided that they survived.

A swift survey of his room told him that he would not be leaving it without help. The walls were solid cut stone and there were no windows, no balcony; not even a latrine hole to the outside. The chamber closet contained a single covered bucket that would presumably be disposed of by a servant in the morning.

With no other recourse left to him, Aragorn gave in to his overtaxed body's demands and availed himself of the hot bath and food provided. He needed to develop a new strategy, and in order to do that he needed nourishment and rest.

For too long he had been on the defensive: reacting to the enemy's attacks instead of anticipating them. In the aftermath of grief and anguish following Legolas' revelations he had acted blindly, with disastrous consequences. It had taken Hasufel's fall to pull him back to sanity, and even now he felt himself skating against the thin edge of panic.

He had never met this Dragaer, but he knew him better than any other. For more than a year he had lived under the man's shadow: feeling his suspicion, his malice, his cruelty and hate. If he could piece together his half-acknowledged suspicions then, his dark intentions, he could discern the Corsair's plan.

Aragorn rose from the bath and pulled on a short robe, wincing as he did so. Pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, he walked over to an armchair next to the fire. He poured himself a glass of watered wine and sat down, staring into the flames, trying to remember.

He had repressed for so long the knowledge of what he was doing, what he was thinking, what it _meant _for the people he loved, that to think about it now was akin to opening a door near bursting with strain. Images crowded close and thick: fragments of memory, shades of meaning glimpsed and then gone, swift and meaningless but for the feelings they evoked.

He had not thought in words then, or in the rationale of cause and effect. Everything was couched in emotion, and it was that which imprinted upon his memory.

Light flashing upon steel – hurt. _What honor remains to the Queen of Gondor?_

Soft flesh yielding beneath his hands – fear. _Do you love me?_

Leather crushed in his fists, muscle taut with strain – rage. _You lie_.

Silken hair between his fingers; hot, panicked breath – lust. _On your knees _. . .

It was too much. There was too much pain, too much guilt to be borne. He could not breathe. His muscles were rigid with tension, his chest constricted in agony. He was drowning in the flood of memory, suffocating – and he wished desperately for the clarity, the freedom from pain that came with using the palantír. In the still lassitude that followed his sessions with it thought came slow and gentle, and emotion was distant and unimportant. If he could only use it, for just a moment, he could gain control . . .

_No!_ Aragorn shoved the longing away. It was folly, the peace it offered an illusion. He struggled to open himself to the torrent, though it robbed his breath and ran fire down his nerves. He accepted the shame, the guilt and the pain as his due, nothing more than he deserved. He accepted it, and slowly, ever so slowly, it lessened.

The constriction about his chest eased, and he could breathe again. He blinked the sweat from his eyes, and gradually the cramp left his hands and they relaxed upon the arms of his chair.

His first coherent thought, _Arwen!,_ brought with it a wave of terror so overwhelming that he was nearly lost again. With all his strength he pushed the panic aside, forcing himself to breathe deeply, to ignore the rush of adrenalin that left his muscles trembling.

"One thing at a time," he muttered aloud, remembering the words that Halbarad had once said to him. As a boy learning to hunt with his brothers, and later scouting with Legolas, he had tried to be constantly aware of everything around him: the tracks of his quarry, the pitch of the wind in the branches, the position of the sun, the surrounding birdcalls, the rustlings of the trees and underbrush. It was Halbarad who had pointed out the foolishness of this to him in his typically blunt fashion.

"You're a Man, not an Elf," he'd said one night as Aragorn sat nursing a headache by their campfire. "You'll do naught but fuss yourself, carrying on like this. Unless you've come out with pointy ears and not told anyone, you hunt as we do and let them hunt as they do. Take it one thing at a time. Focus on what you're after and what you know is a sign of danger, and let the forest take care of itself. It most usually does anyway."

As desperate as Aragorn was to reach her, he could do Arwen no good like this. He had to see past the devastation Dragaer intended in order to devise the concrete steps that he would take to accomplish it. Only then could he stop him. _He can do nothing until his army is within the gates,_ Aragorn told himself. _Focus._

Focus. Start with what you know. The city – how would Dragaer take the city? He would have to do three things: eliminate the army, overcome the defenses, and prevent Gondor's allies from re-capturing it afterward.

The first task Aragorn had accomplished for him, he acknowledged bitterly. Gondor and Rohan's armies were far from Minas Tirith, and thanks to Aragorn's reckless pace their horses were fatigued. It would be a miracle if they came swiftly enough to save the city. As for the second . . . his first thought was that Dragaer had some ally, a traitor planted within Minas Tirith to sabotage their defenses. Perhaps Aelon . . . who would be better placed than the Captain of the King's Guard?

Aragorn caught himself. That was a lie – he was falling into the old trap that Dragaer had set in his mind, suspecting his loyal men of treachery. If that were true then the Corsair would have attacked the moment his men were within the gates. He would have had no need to wait – indeed he would have had no need to use Legolas as a passkey to get inside.

Aragorn fought down the wave of anguish that threatened to engulf him at the thought of the Elf. _Focus. There's no time for that now._ Everything had a purpose. Everything he had done, whether he intended it for his own plans or not, somehow served Dragaer's scheme.

He had brought Éowyn and Lothíriel to Minas Tirith. Aragorn had told himself that it was for their safety – perhaps a part of him had even believed it. But his true intention, he had known even then, was to keep them as hostages to ensure the loyalty of Rohan and Dol Amroth. In the same way he had arrested Gimli in order to force Legolas to submit to him.

Aragorn stared unblinking into the fire. Recounting the depth of his sins was painful, but he would sift through every sickening detail if by doing so he could discover a way to stop Dragaer. Those had been _his _intentions in bringing them under his control. What were the Corsair's?

To stop the counter-attack, he thought. With Imrahil's daughter a hostage and the Queen, sister, and sister-child of Rohan's King under his command, Dragaer was safe from any siege by Rohan or Dol Amroth. As for Ithilien . . . Aragorn had nearly killed Faramir himself. It was not hard to guess that the Corsair would finish what he had begun. With the Steward dead and his wife imprisoned there would be no one to lead the assault. And Legolas' colony of Elves was largely made up of foresters, healers and farmers, not soldiers capable of avenging the death of their Prince.

Aragorn felt close to despair. It seemed that Dragaer had everything in place; everything aligned exactly to his purpose. But he did not, he told himself. He could not; else he would have attacked already. As much as he desired Aragorn to witness his triumph personally – _that _was easy to read in every corrosive layer of the man's being – he would not have risked the return of Gondor's King while his army was yet outside the city walls.

He waited because he _had _to. But for what? Memory rose in Aragorn's mind: Arwen seated upon a dais before the King's Throne with Éowyn at her side. It was the image he had seen in the palantír of Gondor's court on the day that the common people traditionally made their petitions to Gondor's ruler. It was the day of the market – the one day that the city gates would be opened wide.

So _that _was what he intended. He had not the men to take Minas Tirith by siege, so he would take her by stealth. It was diabolically clever – but it was also his weakness, and there Aragorn would have him.

Éomer might be too late – but as long as there was the _chance _that he would arrive in time, Dragaer was vulnerable, and with that vulnerability came uncertainty, and fear. Aragorn could use that.

Let him have his trial, let Dragaer wallow in triumph for a few hours. Aragorn did not care. Whatever happened to him, whatever Faramir and Arwen and Gimli believed of him did not matter. Dragaer _had_ to keep those gates from closing again once they'd opened.

Aragorn felt his lips stretch in a tight, humorless smile. He knew Dragaer, and he knew that the Corsair believed strength came only with power over others. He thought that to surrender was to forfeit victory and that to be subjugated was to be defeated. He was about to discover how very wrong he was.

*~*~*

Éowyn slept badly that night. She and Faramir had stayed up late talking with Imrahil, and when they finally retired she tossed fitfully on her bed, her thoughts circling with restless worry.

Imrahil had listened intently as Faramir explained how the Corsairs had brought Legolas to Minas Tirith. He said nothing, but his mouth tightened as Faramir described the Elf's injuries and their suspicions, the Council's swearing allegiance to Queen Undómiel, and finally King Elessar's arrest.

When Faramir had finished Imrahil sat staring into the fire for several long minutes. He finally spoke without looking up.

"Have you written to the Elves in Ithilien about this?"

Faramir looked startled. He exchanged a glance with Éowyn.

"No. I – that is, we've all been so focused on the consequences for Gondor, and the Queen – I did not think to do so. I do not believe any of us did."

Imrahil nodded. "Understandable. But I would do so at the first opportunity – and I would send word to the Elvenking of Eryn Lasgalen as well. From what you describe his son is dying. I do not think he will react kindly if Legolas passes before he can say farewell."

"I will send messengers at first light, when the gates open," Faramir said.

Imrahil looked up. "With all that has happened you still intend to hold the market tomorrow?"

Faramir sighed. "I would rather not, but in truth we have little choice. The city merchants have already constructed their stalls, and it is the first barley harvest. The farmers have been traveling here for days. They depend on the market for their livelihood. They would riot if I tried to cancel it now."

"But from what Elessar says the Corsairs are planning to attack the city."

Faramir shook his head. "I have scouts beyond the Rammas Echor, and watchmen on the walls. If there is an attack we will see it coming long before they arrive and we will close the gates. Without some concrete evidence I cannot justify doing more than that. I no longer take Elessar at his word."

And that was the whole trouble, Éowyn thought. They could not trust Aragorn, they could not trust the Corsairs – everything was conflicted and confused, and she could not shake the feeling that there was something that they were missing, some threat that they had not seen.

Faramir had always been patient in contrast to her own quick temper. He was reluctant to judge anyone too harshly, he insisted on evidence before making any decision, and he was determined to find common ground for peace with even the Corsairs and the Haradrim, historic enemies of Gondor. These were traits that he had learned in reaction to his father's rash judgments – judgments that had isolated Gondor from her allies, that had decreed death for any who trespassed in her territories, and that had opened Denethor to the machinations of Sauron through the palantír.

He was wiser than she was, Éowyn thought. His patience and thoroughness made him a good Steward, one of the best that Gondor had ever had. But the fact remained that there were times when he drove her to distraction. She wanted nothing more than to expel them all from Minas Tirith – Aragorn, the Corsairs, the lot of them. Exile Aragorn to Rivendell and let the Elves deal with him if they would. Send the Corsairs back to wherever they came from. And keep Minas Tirith shut fast, and keep her husband and unborn child safe.

But of course Faramir would do nothing of the sort, not without a trial first. Meanwhile they were vulnerable, and there was nothing she could do about it. In her condition she could not even wield a sword to defend herself.

She checked the locks on doors and windows twice before she retired, but it did nothing to ease the tension she felt. She turned restlessly on the featherbed, unable to find a comfortable position, and she kept Faramir awake with her movements. Her back ached.

The hours dragged by until finally, exhausted, she fell into a fitful doze. She awoke at first light feeling ill-rested and badly used. Her bladder was signaling urgently. She kicked the tangled sheets from her legs and rolled to sit up, trying not to disturb Faramir. As she did so a stabbing pain struck her, and she caught her breath, pressing her hands against her lower back until the ache lessened.

When it had eased she clambered to her feet and made her way to the chamber closet. Feeling slightly better afterward she went into the sitting room. She drew back the drapes and looked out over the city. There was a pale light growing above the hills to the south, and a low mist hung over the Pelennor Fields. The lower levels were crowded with the bulky stalls of the merchants, many of whom had slept outside to guard their wares. The city gates were about to open, and she could see a long line of people, farmers with carts of grain and produce, wool, and herds of livestock making their way slowly along the road to Minas Tirith.

It looked to be a beautiful day, Éowyn thought, and went to summon a servant to help her dress for court.

*~*~*

Amdir leaned nonchalantly against the city wall, watching as a weaver and her daughter unrolled samples of their craft and draped them over a series of wooden racks for display. Next to them a wool merchant had set up his open air stall with a wide table and a series of combs for teasing out samples from the sacks that the farmers would bring him, along with a scale for weighing out the coin to pay them. The empty scales hung slightly lower on the right hand side than on the left.

_We're none of us more honest than we have to be,_ Amdir thought, amused, and glanced up. High on the wall above him a guard was standing, looking out over the fields. As Amdir watched a second soldier approached the first. Each of them saluted, and then the first turned sharply and marched away. He went into a guard's hut along the wall and reappeared a few minutes later at the base of the stone spiral stairs. He walked away up the street, his head down, and soon disappeared between the crowded market stalls.

On the opposite side of the street Kerin raised his eyebrows. Amdir shook his head, _Not yet._ Kerin settled back into the shadow of a tavern doorway.

The new guard was standing very straight upon the wall, his attention focused on the peasants who milled outside the gate. But as the minutes ticked away and the sun's warmth grew his posture gradually relaxed. He walked a few paces along the wall and then came back and stood still, his feet well apart. Finally he rested his crossbow on top of the wall and leaned forward, bracing his elbows against the stone.

Amdir caught Kerin's eye and jerked his head to one side. Kerin nodded. He ambled out from his doorway, apparently interested in the array of belt and shoe buckles that a silversmith was arranging in front of his shop. He picked one up, turning it over in his hand, and spoke a few words to the man. An onlooker would have thought the price was too steep, for Kerin shrugged and put the buckle down again. He wandered over to inspect the blankets that the weaver had laid out, but finding nothing to interest him he moved on, and stepped around the side of her stall and into the staircase entrance.

Amdir counted to twenty, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. Then he walked across the street and joined Kerin at the base of the stairs. They spiraled up to his right, forcing him to climb with his sword hand against the inner post. But that hardly mattered, Amdir thought, because he had no sword. The guards had confiscated it when they entered the city. Valar, he had to get hold of himself. He was shaking.

They emerged into a small, circular room with a single arrow-slit window – the guard station. It was open on each side, and the wall ran straight through it like a road through a tunnel. Amdir could see the guard standing on the open wall not ten feet away.

Amdir positioned himself to one side of the entrance, out of the guard's line of sight. The soldiers of Minas Tirith had rudely taken their weapons when they entered the city, but it so happened that there was a blacksmith's shop on the fourth level, tucked between an ironmonger and a stonemason. The Corsairs were weaponless but well supplied with gold, and the Captain had a knack for diverting their personal guards when necessary. In the past two days that smith had done better business than he had in years.

Amdir bent and drew a long knife from his boot. Kerin slipped back partway down the staircase and then began to climb it again, stumbling against the walls as he did so, and singing loudly.

"Oh the sea is a mistress cold and gray, but ah'll ne'er know another till me dyin' day!"

The guard could not fail to hear him. Amdir held his breath. Sure enough, a voice called, "Who goes there?"

"She'll take you an' break you if you let her, but if yer heart be true then she'll make a man of you!" Kerin hit the high notes shamelessly.

"You're not allowed up here," the guard said. Amdir heard the arrows rattle in his quiver as he approached. Kerin hiccupped.

Kerin braced himself against the wall opposite Amdir. "Who're you to tell me that?" he slurred. "I'll go where I want. You ain't the boss of me."

His legs gave way and he slid down the wall to the floor. The guard hurried forward.

*~*~*

Aragorn stood absolutely still in the hidden alcove, his muscles locked and humming with tension. With all the discipline from his years as a Ranger he hid his emotions, keeping his face blank. He must wait, he must bide his time if his plan was to have any chance at all of success, but oh it was hard.

The hall's high windows were flooded with sunshine. Aragorn's stomach knotted at the sight. How long had the city gates been open? What reinforcements might the Corsair have received; what damage had he and his men done? Aragorn's people were out there, and he could do nothing to protect them. _Wait,_ he told himself for what seemed the hundredth time. _Wait._

The throne room was crowded. Tradition had been broken this market day, for the trial of Gondor's King superseded the common people's complaints. But Gondor's Council had determined that the people must see the proceedings for themselves if they were to be satisfied that justice was done – and that the Queen and the Council deserved their allegiance. They would risk no rumors or pockets of discontent that might later foment rebellion.

So the hall was packed ten rows deep on either side with Gondor's upper classes, and those commoners not occupied with the market had filled the entryway and spilled out the open doors onto the courtyard steps. Many of them had waited through the night for the proceedings to begin.

A clerk came first and settled himself at a small desk to the left of the dais, parchment and quills at the ready. Then the master of protocol entered and rapped his long staff three times upon the marble floor. The hall fell silent. "Her Majesty, Arwen Undómiel, Queen of Gondor and Arnor: the Unified Kingdom."

The assembled company bowed as Arwen swept up the aisle to the dais at the head of the room. Aragorn felt a surge of relief at the sight of her safe and whole. She wore the traditional finery of Gondor: a loosely flowing gown of deep lilac surmounted by a white ermine cloak that trailed well past her heels. A net of jewels glinted like stars in her black hair, confining the wild tresses that Aragorn loved into a neat coil at the back of her neck. Over all she wore the great crown of Gondor, its white wings upswept and edged with adamant.

She had never liked that crown, Aragorn remembered. On their wedding day she had whispered to him that it made him look as if he wore a duck upon his head, and he had come very close to bursting into laughter and ruining the entire solemn ceremony. He had heard her complain of the heavy fabrics and high collars traditional among Gondor's nobility, so confining and so foreign to an Elf.

But now she was regal, beautiful and stern as a warrior-queen of Númenor, and he could hear the awed whispers as her people gazed upon her. They would follow her, he thought, and they would count themselves fortunate to do so. He realized then something that he had known for years, though he had not consciously acknowledged it. Arwen was perfectly capable of ruling Gondor alone. Given the power, she would lead the people in security and prosperity – indeed she would do it better than he had this past year. Perhaps she would do it better than he ever could.

The Council members were filing in now to take their places before the twelve chairs arranged in a semi-circle at the base of the King's Throne. The master of protocol called each of their names in turn, and finished, "Faramir son of Denethor, heir of Anarion, Steward of Gondor."

Faramir entered, but did not move to the Steward's Chair. He stood to one side, clad in a soldier's tunic of leather embossed with the emblem of the Tree. Aragorn understood then: he had not retaken the White Rod of the Steward. The men might follow him out of loyalty, but he claimed no official authority. Aragorn glanced over the part of the crowd that he could see from his vantage point and spied Éowyn in the first row. Her eyes were fixed intently upon her husband.

Prince Imrahil entered last of all and walked quietly to the Chair, as was his right in absence of the Steward. Whispering broke out among the crowd. The master of protocol thumped his staff three times again. "Turn now to honor the Guardians of the West. Remember our heritage that was born in grace and was lost in folly, that wisdom might rise in us again."

There was a rustling as the people turned to face west for a long moment in silence. Then the master of protocol rapped his staff once. He walked to stand in front of the dais with its twelve chairs and bowed low. "The Court is open, Your Majesty."

Arwen had climbed to the King's Throne that Aragorn never used if he could avoid it. It was so high above the hall that it made it impossible for him to speak with the people who came to plead before the court. For that reason he had had the low dais built in front of it, at a level where he could see the people face to face. Arwen seemed to hesitate for a moment, or perhaps he imagined it. Then she sat down, her back ramrod straight. "Begin."

Faramir stepped forward. "The Court calls Elessar son of Arathorn, of the House of Telcontar, heir of Isildur, King of Gondor."

Aragorn took a deep breath, and flanked by his guards he stepped out of the hidden alcove. He ignored the murmuring as people craned their necks to see him. He looked up at the distant throne, but Arwen did not meet his gaze. Her face was set and pale.

"Elessar, thee are called before this Court to give answer for thy actions," Faramir said formally. "So it is charged: that thou didst threaten violence against Gondor's Queen. That thou didst attempt to take the life of Gondor's Steward. That thou didst remove Gondor's army from her lands and left her without defense. That thou didst injury to the Lord of Ithilien, one of the Firstborn. How dost thee answer?"

"I accept responsibility for my actions," Aragorn said. A murmur of voices rose from the watching crowd. Aragorn raised his voice over them and continued.

"But the harm that was done was not by my intention, but by the device of an enemy of Gondor, a man who has plotted to hurt Gondor and her people, and who plots against her still. The Corsair captain, Dragaer, has amassed an army. He has gained entrance to sabotage our defenses, and his army is now marching to attack Minas Tirith."

Faramir's eyes narrowed. "What evidence do you give of this?"

"That of the perpetrator himself," Aragorn answered. "I call Captain Dragaer to the floor."

*~*~*

The Corsairs had spent the night traveling from one tavern to the next, their guards in tow, and by the time the Gondorians had been due to go off duty they'd caught the spirit of the evening. By dawn they'd come to a draw in the darts competition, concluded that The White Horse had the best brew but The Troll's Head kept the comeliest maids, and consumed something like twelve pints of bitter to a man.

Not that the Corsairs drank their liquor. Amdir made very sure of that, and most of it went into the straw or spilled down their shirts while their now off-duty guards passed through the stages from friendliness into complete inebriation. But Kerin certainly _smelled _as if he was intoxicated.

The guard caught a whiff as he bent over Kerin's inert body. "Ugh! Drunk at this hour. Damned pirates. You ought to be –"

The rest of his words were cut off as Amdir stepped behind him and drew the blade of his knife across his throat. The guard gurgled, half-turned, and for an instant his wide grey eyes looked into Amdir's. Then he fell to the floor. A pool of blood began to form around his head.

Amdir pulled off his own ale-spattered shirt and tied it tightly around the guard's throat, trying to keep the blood from soaking everything. Kerin yanked off the dead man's boots and began fumbling with the strap of his hip-quiver.

"Hurry," Amdir hissed, looking over his shoulder at the empty expanse of wall. "They'll notice if the post is empty for long."

"I am hurrying," Kerin snapped back. "I don't see you helping – there!" He jerked the quiver free with a grunt and began undoing the clasp of the guard's belt.

Five minutes later anyone looking at the city wall from a distance would have seen a soldier of Gondor pacing the length of his post, exactly as he should.

*~*~*

The Council members were whispering together. Faramir looked at them, then at Imrahil and finally up at the Queen. Arwen nodded.

Faramir raised his voice. "The Court calls Dragaer son of Seregsul."

A guard opened a side door. A man emerged and walked to the front of the dais, and Aragorn had his first sight of the Corsair captain.

He was a head taller than the guards who escorted him. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, framing a handsome, chiseled face marred by a long scar that ran from the corner of his mouth up to his left temple. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and he carried himself with almost a dancer's grace.

He bowed to the Queen and then turned to face Aragorn. His pose was relaxed, his hands open at his side. His black eyes gleamed as they met Aragorn's, and the faintest of smiles played about his lips.

Aragorn felt a wave of hatred so intense that for a moment he could not get his breath. He had _seen _this man assault his closest friend, he knew that he planned a similar fate for his wife, and now he stood there only feet away, and in all his life Aragorn had never desired anything more than he now wanted to get his hands around Dragaer's neck and choke the life from his body.

He took a half-step toward the man and stopped. _No. That's what he wants. He'll try to goad you into an attack, to show that you are irrational, violent._ Aragorn drew a shaking breath and lifted his head, holding Dragaer's gaze. Slowly his hands unclenched.

He turned to the Council. "Six days ago this Corsair marched his army over land to attack Umbar. He then joined his fleet and sailed up the river Anduin. They are there, beyond range of our normal scouts. Send a patrol south along the river and you will find them."

Dragaer raised his eyebrows. "You flatter me, sir. A fleet? I? I have but a small ship, which your scouts have seen, and your people are well acquainted with my humble crew. Send your patrol, if you wish." He shrugged. "They will find nothing."

But Imrahil was leaning forward. "They attacked Umbar, you say. Where was Gondor's army when this happened?"

"In Harad," Aragorn said. "I had believed that the Southrons were massing to attack Gondor. I was deceived. There was no Haradic threat – this Corsair did it all. Éomer King is returning with the army – wait a few hours and he will confirm it for you."

Dragaer snorted. "This has passed the point of amusement, my lords. I came here on your invitation to give testimony about my rescue of the Elf. I entered your city unarmed, against my better judgment, because Gondor promised us peace after the War. And now I am baselessly accused, without any evidence against me – I should have trusted my instincts. I should have left your Elf to die where I found him."

"You murdered him!" Aragorn caught himself. He was shaking with rage, but he looked at Faramir and spoke with forced control. "I do not ask you to believe me. Only close the city gates while you send patrols to investigate my claim. Keep them shut until Éomer arrives. What harm is there in that?"

*~*~*

There were six guard posts spaced around the circumference of the outer wall, and twelve Corsairs. They had started at opposite ends of the city circle, working in pairs toward the central massive gate. Within an hour they had captured every post, and enough Corsairs had taken the guards' places to give the appearance of normalcy, at least from a distance. The rest of them gathered in the two guardhouses on either side of the main gates. These were larger than the others, and more enclosed. They concealed the gates' operating hinges as well as the winding mechanism for the portcullis.

"Suggestions, Torres?" Amdir said, looking up at the doors' huge metal hinges, each one as tall as a man's leg was long.

Torres was a small, wizened man with quick hands, and he was the best ship-builder that Amdir had ever met. He shrugged.

"The gates operate by direct force – it takes six men to move them. Once they're open, _keeping _them open is not a problem. Wedge a few blocks between the near end of each gate and the gatehouse, top and bottom. By the time they figure out what's keeping the gates from closing it'll be too late."

"All right. There's plenty of wood here for the fireplace, you lot get started with that. Torres, how about the portcullis?"

Torres sucked his teeth. "That's harder. The Dwarf rigged it with a double pulley system on both sides – here and over there. Lifting it takes strength and coordination, but one man can drop it with the pull of a chain."

"Solution?" Amdir said. His nerves were humming, and he cast frequent glances over his shoulder at the empty doorway.

"Get a few long metal poles and wedge them between the gears of the pulleys. You'll have to leave some men here, though, to keep the soldiers from freeing them."

"And who in this rabble is going to stand his ground against a garrison of Minas Tirith?" Amdir snorted. He paused, studying the massive pulleys.

"What if we built a fire underneath them? Could we fuse the chains together?"

Torres looked doubtful. "It would have to be extremely hot, as hot as a blacksmith's forge. You won't get that kind of heat with wood from the guards' fireplace."

"No . . . I suppose not." Amdir hissed in exasperation. "There has to be _some _way to block this thing!"

"Portcullises are designed to go down, not stay up," Torres said. "Unless . . ." he trailed off, staring into space.

"What?" Amdir said.

Torres smiled. "Unwind a dozen feet or so of chain and _tie _it between the pulley gears. Stick some metal rods and things in there as well – anything that will make for a complicated knot. Then build your fires underneath each pulley."

"But you said it wouldn't be hot enough –"

"No," Torres said, "but it _will _be hot enough to make those chains extremely unpleasant to touch, and considerably complicate the job of untying them. It'll buy us time, and that's all we need."

"All right," Amdir said. "You all heard the man, get to work! I'm going over to the other gatehouse to tell them what to do."

He headed for the spiral stair down to the ground level, where the peasants were still streaming through the gates. Torres caught his arm.

"There's still one thing I don't understand," the builder said in a low voice. "How will the others know it's time?"

"Captain said they would – that's all I know." Amdir said. He hesitated, and met Torres' eyes. "Course, if you care to guess . . ."

Torres held his gaze. "The seeing stone? You think the Captain left it with Galemir?"

Amdir shrugged. "He didn't have it when we arrived here – the guards would have found it."

"Yes, but – why _him?_"

Amdir heard pique in the builder's voice. He'd been wanting a look at that rock ever since they'd first puzzled out that the Captain must have it.

"I wouldn't be too envious, Torres," Amdir said. "Galemir's second-in-command: figures he'd have to get it so the plan will work. But what do you think will happen to him, once the battle's over and he's left as the only person who knows how to use it besides the Captain?"

Torres' eyes widened. He took a step backward.

Amdir nodded. "I wouldn't be too envious, if I were you," he said, and hurried away.

*~*~*

Imrahil leaned forward, his eyes intent. "What proof have you that Captain Dragaer attacked Lord Legolas?"

Aragorn did not answer for a long moment. The hall was hushed with the silence of hundreds of people listening. He could feel them watching him, waiting.

He took a breath. "I ask the Court's indulgence. It may be that when Lord Legolas regains consciousness he will choose to explain to you all that has occurred. It is not my place to do so now."

The head of the Council spoke for the first time. "King Elessar, you have been called here to explain your actions. Our healers tell us that Lord Legolas may never regain consciousness. You stand accused of causing his injuries – if he dies you will answer for the death of a Firstborn. This Court cannot afford to wait. If you have any information to support your claim you must share it now."

Aragorn stood quiet. He could feel Dragaer's mocking gaze upon him.

How much did the people know? Rumors must be flying around the city – but thus far they had spoken in vague terms, of unspecified injury to a dying Elf. Was he then to describe exactly how Legolas came to leave the army's camp? Was he to recount to them every agonizing moment that he had witnessed in Legolas' mind? Even if he told only Faramir it would be a humiliation to the proud Elf, the last betrayal of one who had once called Aragorn his friend.

Aragorn looked up at the King's Throne, and for an instant Arwen met his eyes. Even at this distance he could see the tension in her, and he knew that she understood the magnitude of his choice, if not the nature of it. _She will rule well_, he thought again, and turned to Lord Gryer.

"I am sorry, my lord," he said. "I cannot."

"You will not, you mean," Dragaer said. His voice carried across the hall as he moved to face Aragorn. "You are one for bold declarations, Elessar. And yet now, when this Court has the evidence of your crimes in hand, you shy away. Well no matter. I rescued Lord Legolas when you had finished with him, and I can tell the Court what occurred."

His gaze swept the packed audience. "We found the Elf wandering along the shoreline," he said. "He was disoriented, babbling, and he could barely walk. When we took him aboard ship to examine him we discovered why. His leggings were stained with blood, and when we cut them off we found that he –"

"Stop!" Aragorn shouted. He shook with the effort of control, his fists clenched and his nails digging into his palms. The hall was in an uproar. Arwen was on her feet, Imrahil had paled and Faramir was glaring at Dragaer. In the audience, Éowyn had risen and was pushing her way to a side exit, visibly distressed.

"Order!" Lord Gryer's voice rose above the noise. "Order! King Elessar, you have interrupted the witness' statement. Are you prepared to give evidence in his stead?"

"No," Aragorn said. "I am prepared to confess."

There was an indrawn breath from the hall, and silence fell. Aragorn swallowed. "The Court is aware of the healer's statement," he said. "I accept full responsibility for Lord Legolas' injuries, and I submit myself to the judgment of the Court, on two conditions."

"This Court is not subject to any –" Gryer began, but Imrahil interrupted him.

"Name your conditions."

"One, the healer's testimony will be stricken from the Court's record," Aragorn said. He glanced at the furiously scribbling clerk. "Let the history show that I did harm one of the Firstborn, even to –" his voice broke, and it was a moment before he could continue, "– even to cause his death. Let that be the end of it.

"Second, close the gates of Minas Tirith and keep them shut until Éomer returns. That is all."

"What of the other charges?"

Aragorn met Faramir's eyes and saw the accusation there. "I regret the harm that I have done to you, and to those whom you love," he said quietly. "If there were any way I could heal that hurt, I would. I am sorry. I would ask forgiveness, if it were possible."

Faramir looked away. The muscles of his jaw tightened. "It is not I but the people you have endangered," he said. "Do you admit that your actions left Gondor more vulnerable than before?"

"I have said that I accept the charges against me, and to that I hold," Aragorn said. His heart was pounding. Faramir had not rejected his conditions – the threat of the gates' closure was imminent. Dragaer saw it, and he could not know if whatever countermeasure he had planned was complete. Aragorn could feel the tension in him, the panic ruthlessly suppressed.

Aragorn kept his eyes on Faramir and spoke clearly and precisely. "But if this Court seeks the full truth then I will say that I acted as I thought best to safeguard our people. I was deceived."

Dragaer scoffed loudly. "Again you resort to accusations without evidence. How am I to have deceived you, O King Elessar? All of Middle-earth knows that you defeated the Dark Lord himself in the palantír – and you claim that a ship's captain could master you? You insult your Court's intelligence!"

Aragorn lifted his head, and turned slowly to look full into the Corsair's eyes. "Who said anything about a palantír?" he said.

Dragaer stared at him, and Aragorn saw the Captain's eyes widen as he realized his mistake. He permitted himself the faintest of smiles for Dragaer's sight alone.

"You must have –" Dragaer began, but Faramir was faster.

"Guards!" he shouted. "Arrest this man! Aelon, get to the city walls. Take every soldier you can muster and close those gates! Now!"

The hall erupted. People were on their feet, milling in confusion, and soldiers were pushing through them to get outside. In moments guards surrounded Aragorn and Dragaer, holding them back from the crowd.

Aragorn did not resist. He looked up and saw Arwen watching him, her brows drawn together in a frown of concentration. But then a new voice broke through the tumult, and she glanced away.

"Lord Faramir!" A page was fighting to be heard. "Lord Faramir, you must come! Lady Éowyn is in labor!"

Faramir broke away from a rapid consultation with Imrahil and started toward the exit. But the next instant he pulled up short as a cry rose from one of the peasants outside the entrance doors.

"The enemy! The enemy is crossing the Pelennor! We're under attack!"


	37. Now for Wrath

"Cry havoc! And let slip the dogs of war."

-- William Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar_

Chapter 36: Now for Wrath

"We're under attack!"

Faramir whipped around. "Imrahil –"

Imrahil was already moving. "Knights of Dol Amroth, to me!" he shouted. To Faramir he said, "We'll hold them off. Get those gates closed."

The hall was in uproar. The people of Gondor had long experience with war, and the coming invasion raised all too recent memories of the terror wrought by Sauron's forces. Even the most battle seasoned veterans among them were hard pressed not to panic as a black wind of fear swept the crowd.

Men and women were shouting, crying, fighting to reach loved ones and blocking each other at every turn. Aelon and his men were forcing their way through the masses of frightened people to the entrance. Imrahil strode in their wake, those Knights who were in the hall joining in behind him.

Shoved aside by the soldiers, some of the Gondorians were fighting back. Faramir saw a woman knocked down as a beefy sergeant pushed his way past. Her male companion yelled in protest and shoved the sergeant. Others in the crowd joined in, fighting and clawing to get out the large entrance doors, and the soldiers were turning to defend themselves from what was fast becoming a mob.

"Silence!" Aragorn shouted in a voice of command, but he was held fast by the guards who surrounded him, and his words were lost in the cacophony of the hall. He caught Faramir's eye. "Faramir! They'll tear each other apart! You must quell them!"

_Well of course,_ Faramir thought. But how exactly did Aragorn expect him to do that?

He jumped up onto the dais. "People of Gondor!" he shouted. "People, hear me!"

His voice was drowned in the noise of the crowd. But in the center of the floor Imrahil turned to look at him. Then he seized a crossbow from a nearby soldier, slipped off the safety catch, turned and fired. The bolt shot over the heads of the people and slammed between the eyes of the large statue of Isildur that stood beside the entrance doors.

In the shocked silence that followed Faramir called, "You are safest inside the citadel. Move to the side, away from the entrance. Make way for the soldiers of Gondor."

"What about our children?" a woman cried. "My daughter is on the third level!"

"We will evacuate all civilians to the upper levels," Faramir said. The people were listening to him, for the moment. Dwelling in the shadow of Mordor, Minas Tirith had held regular evacuation drills for most of Faramir's life. The people would remember and respond, if only he could reach past their initial, instinctive fear before it drowned their ability to reason.

"The soldiers will protect you and your families, but they must get to the walls. Make way!"

Slowly the crowd parted. Aelon and his men were first out the doors. Imrahil came swiftly after, followed by some twenty Knights in silver and blue. Faramir knew that the rest of his men would join him on the way down to the Pelennor Fields. He had a sudden, vivid flash of memory: the smell of steel and leather and the clop of horses' hooves on his own march to Pelennor, to fight a battle that was already lost.

He pushed the memory away. It was not the same, he told himself. It would not come to that. It would not.

He turned to the head of the Council, standing on the dais a few feet away. "Lord Gryer, get the people inside the citadel. Keep the doors open as long as you can – more civilians will be sent here. But if the fighting reaches the sixth circle then you must bar the doors, and keep them shut no matter what happens. Do you understand?"

Gryer's face was pale. He was a councilor, not a military man, and was accustomed to debate within genteel rooms far removed from the harsh realities of war. He looked blankly at Faramir, and his mouth worked for a moment before he spoke. "Who are they? How did this happen?"

"Lord Gryer!" Faramir shouted. "Get the people into the citadel!"

Gryer blinked. His eyes came into focus, and he nodded. Faramir did not have time for more. He was desperate to find Éowyn, to protect her. He forced himself to think past the need. _She is safe. The enemy will not reach her. I will not allow it._

Imrahil was leading the initial charge and Aelon was manning the gates. If he could close them in time . . . Faramir tried not to think about the masses of civilians in the packed market below – the crowds of people that stood between Aelon and the gates. Without the protection of the army, without leaders to calm them and direct them to safety, they would panic. And that would be fatal to them all.

_How _had the enemy come so close without warning from Faramir's scouts or the guards on the wall? No time to think about that now.

"Lieutenant!" he shouted to the knot of guards around Dragaer and Elessar. "Take the Corsair to the dungeons. Then round up his men. Arrest them all!"

"Yes, Lord Faramir," the soldier called back. Two of his men had hold of the captain's arms. They began maneuvering him toward a side exit. "What of King Elessar?"

Faramir hesitated. Aragorn had confessed to attacking Legolas, but he had been under the influence of the palantír at the time. Was he still?

Aragorn was standing quietly in the midst of his guards, but Faramir could see the need for action in every rigid line of his body. His gaze had been fixed on Dragaer, but now he turned and even at this distance Faramir flinched at the intensity of his silver-grey eyes.

Faramir crossed the dais to stand directly in front of him. "Do I have your word?"

Aragorn held his gaze, and Faramir did not look away. "I swear to you," Aragorn said. "I will abide by whatever you decree when this is over. Let me fight."

Faramir nodded. "You can get a sword from the armory. You will not wield Andúril until after the Court's verdict." It was not a question.

Aragorn dipped his head once in acknowledgement. "As you say."

He glanced at something behind Faramir and then turned away. The guards made room for him to pass. Faramir looked around to see Arwen standing at the foot of the steps to the King's Throne.

"I will see to Éowyn," she said. "Faramir, someone must organize the evacuation of the lower levels."

Faramir felt a rush of gratitude toward her. It was by main force of will that he kept from running to protect Éowyn himself. All his life he had put duty before family, but it had never been easy. Now he felt as if the strain were tearing him in two.

"Thank you, my lady," he said. "Take a guard with you to stand outside the door."

Arwen nodded. She gathered up her skirts and ran toward the side entrance that led to the upper levels of the citadel, past the group of soldiers still struggling with the Corsair captain.

Faramir did not see what happened next. He was moving toward the main entrance, intending to gather the remaining soldiers and take them to the lower levels, when he heard a shout behind him.

He whirled back to see the group of guards standing frozen well apart. One of them had his hands at his throat. As Faramir watched bright red blood welled between his fingers and trickled over his hands. He slumped bonelessly to the floor.

Dragaer was standing free a little apart from the motionless guards. He held a long knife slicked with blood in his left hand. His right was clamped over the Queen's mouth, pulling her backward against his chest.

"_Dragaer!_" Aragorn's roar reverberated through the hall, freezing the people in mid-motion. He hurtled back up the aisle toward them, only to skid to a halt as Dragaer pressed the knife against Arwen's throat.

"Take another step," Dragaer said. "Come on." He looked around at Aragorn, Faramir, and the motionless guards. "Who wants to see the color of a half-elf's blood? Make a move."

Arwen brought the sharp heel of her shoe down hard on top of Dragaer's foot. The Corsair grunted and jerked her off balance, pulling her toward the stairs. Her hands gripping his knife-arm seemed to trouble him not at all.

Faramir's insides were ice. He stole a glance at Aragorn: the man was immobile; his body taut with strain and his face was terrible to behold. A drop of blood fell from the knife blade onto the fabric of Arwen's collar.

Dragaer backed around the corner. Faramir could hear his boots on the stairs, his harsh breathing loud in the silent hall. He could not hear Arwen at all. Dragaer's hand was clamped over her nose and mouth, cutting off her airway.

They stood in motionless tableau, listening as the footfalls faded up the stairs. Silence. Then, in the distance, a door slammed. As if at the snapping of a restraint Aragorn tore after them, with Faramir and the guards at his heels.

*~*~*

Aelon cleared the steps of the citadel at a run and shot across the courtyard, his men fanning out behind him. He caught himself against the wall at the far side and stared down over the Minas Tirith.

"Dear Eru," one of his men breathed. It was nothing less than a prayer.

An army was galloping across the Pelennor Fields. They carried no banners or sigils that Aelon could see, and their armor and weaponry were a wild mishmash with no rhyme or reason apart from what it seemed each man could scrounge for himself. Rohirric helms joined with Gondorian breastplates and mail of both Orc and Dwarven make, and the men carried swords both short and long, Gondorian broadswords and Haradic cutlasses. A forest of Uruk lances rose above their heads. Aelon even glimpsed a bow or two of the Galadhrim.

But for all of that they moved with a single purpose, and there were _thousands _of them. They filled the Pelennor road and spilled across the fields to either side, churning the soft earth to mud in their wake.

Prince Imrahil came to stand at Aelon's shoulder. He took one look and said, "The _gates_."

Aelon's heart sank. The massive gates of Minas Tirith that the Dwarves had rebuilt, the city's first and best defense which no army less than Sauron's had ever defeated, stood wide open. There was no sign of the guards on the outer wall.

Imrahil did not wait for more. Already his Knights were leading horses from the stables on the sixth circle, and he ran to join them. Aelon hurried after on foot. He had no mount, but he did not need one. He'd been born in Minas Tirith and grown to manhood in her cobbled streets, and there was a reason that few people kept horses in the city.

Aelon took his men through the back streets, moving swiftly through passages so narrow that the walls brushed his shoulders on either side, directly from gate to gate down through the levels of the city. He left a soldier at each gate they passed with instructions to bar it shut once the civilians had crossed through to safety.

He reached the third level just before Imrahil. Here the market booths filled the streets, crowding the main road to the point that the Knights' horses were forced to walk in single file. The farmers and shopkeepers looked up in annoyance as they jostled their way past. Aelon prayed that they would get through before someone in one of the upper levels spotted the coming enemy. If he was forced to sound the alarm now the people would panic, and with his men caught in the middle of it there would be no chance to gain the outer wall in time.

Their luck held until they reached the second level. Here Aelon found the way blocked. A flock of sheep had broken from their enclosure and filled half the circle. A harried shepherd was trying to gather them up again, assisted by a dozen farmers and one half-grown sheepdog pup. The men's shouts and curses filled the air, split by the shepherd's whistles to his dog and the high bleats of the sheep.

Imrahil nudged his horse slowly through the mass of woolly bodies. Aelon cast about, trying to find a side passage that was clear, but everywhere was packed with men and animals.

Then a cry sounded from above Aelon's head. He looked up. A boy was standing atop the second level's wall, peering out toward the Pelennor Fields. "Look out there!" he shouted. "Look!"

The people near Aelon were turning toward him, shading their eyes from the morning sun. A man climbed the wall to stand beside the boy. "Attack!" he shouted. "They're attacking the city!"

Imrahil bent his head and spurred his horse forward. The great animal leaped ahead and his Knights pounded after. People screamed and dove to get out of their way. Aelon gave up – there was no chance of keeping them calm now. His only hope was that there were some soldiers left on the first level who might beat him to the gates. He put his horn to his lips and blew a piercing blast.

And the world went mad.

*~*~*

Arwen's chest was on fire. The Corsair's hand was like a steel band cutting off her air. Black stars were breaking across her vision by the time he dragged her into a room and slammed the door closed behind them. Dragaer threw her to the floor, and for a long moment she could only lie there, panting air back into her starved lungs.

They were in an antechamber at the side of the citadel, where the ladies of the court could retire during breaks between sessions. A low couch stood across from a window overlooking a small garden, and a high-backed chair and a stand with a washbasin and copper mirror were beside the door.

Dragaer swung the chair around and jammed it under the door handle. He crossed to the window and yanked down the drapery ties. Then he was at Arwen's side, stuffing the sash into her mouth and tying it so tightly behind her head that she gagged. She bucked and twisted in his grip, clawing at his eyes.

Dragaer recoiled out of her reach and then backhanded her across the face. "Another fighter, eh?" he said, and though he was short of breath Arwen heard the amusement in his voice. "Oh, I shall enjoy you, my dear."

He threw her over onto her stomach and pressed one knee against her back, holding her down while he tied her hands. "More sport later," he grunted. "I'm afraid we haven't the time for it now."

The door handle rattled, and then something slammed heavily against the wood. "Try again, Elessar," Dragaer called. "The moment that door opens, she dies." The thumping stopped.

Rough hands pushed up Arwen's skirts, and then a cord was looped around her legs and tied tight, cutting into her flesh.

"Release her, Dragaer," Aragorn called through the door. "It's me you want. This has nothing to do with her."

"You're wrong about that," Dragaer grunted. Tears pricked Arwen's eyes as he gave a final jerk to the cord around her calves. "But that should not surprise you, Elessar. You're wrong about most things."

"Which things?" This was Faramir, making an effort to sound reasonable though Arwen could hear the anger in his voice. "Gondor granted clemency to the Corsairs after the War. We gave your men safe passage back to their families and offered you the chance to trade as free merchants. By what cause do you betray us?"

Dragaer ignored this. He checked the bonds at Arwen's wrists and then knelt beside her. "Alas our time is all too brief," he said, his breath hot against her ear. "But rest assured, my lady, that you will remain in my thoughts until we are together again."

He nuzzled the back of her neck, an obscene gesture, and then rose to his feet. Arwen heard the window open, and then a thump as Dragaer dropped down to the grass outside. She held her breath, listening, but he did not return.

The door handle rattled again. "Dragaer!" Aragorn's voice was edged with fear. "I swear to the Valar, I will kill you with my own hands if you hurt her."

With her hands tied behind her, it was an awkward struggle to get her knees beneath her. Arwen hunched herself forward, scraping her cheek against the cold stone floor. Faramir was talking again. She ignored him and pushed forward again, and then again. She gathered herself, eyeing the distance carefully. Then she swung her legs forward, pivoting on one shoulder and rolling onto her back, crushing her hands painfully beneath her.

Her bound ankles collided with the legs of the tilted-up chair, knocking it across the room. The door burst open, spilling Aragorn and Faramir inside. They hesitated for a fraction of a second, scanning the room with ranger wariness, and then Faramir strode to the open window while Aragorn dropped to his knees beside Arwen.

His hands were gentle as he undid the sash that gagged her, freeing her of the choking cloth. She rolled onto her side, coughing, as Aragorn pulled at the ties that cut into her wrists.

"Here, my lord," a soldier bent over them, and Arwen felt a tug as his knife scraped against the tight-bound cord. A moment later her hands were free, and the soldier was attending to the ties around her legs.

Aragorn helped her to a sitting position. "Are you all right?"

His fingers skimmed over the chafed skin of her wrists. She looked up and met his eyes, and saw the tenderness there, and the fear. She nodded, and looked away.

"The Corsair –"

"He is gone," Faramir said. He turned from the window, his expression grim. "He must have scaled the garden wall. He's in the city now."

"Bring me the water in that pitcher," Aragorn said to the nearby guard, indicating the washstand. "And someone get me a clean cloth."

"No." Arwen pulled her hand from his grasp and got to her feet.

"Arwen," Aragorn began, but she cut him off.

"I am _fine._ The people need help more than I."

"You could have been killed," Faramir said.

"Not yet," Aragorn said. They turned to look at him. His eyes were hard, and he spoke with bitter conviction. "Dragaer has no intention of murdering any of us, not yet. This is only a diversion, to delay us while his forces take the city."

He looked at Arwen. "You were going to attend to Éowyn. Are you still able to do that?"

Arwen nodded.

"Good. Will you please stay with her, and take these guards with you? Bar the door and do not permit _anyone _entrance."

"Except for the nurse," Faramir said. Aragorn looked at him, and Faramir lifted his chin. "The best midwife in Minas Tirith," he said. "As promised."

Aragorn blanched, but his voice was steady as he answered. "As promised. I will escort her myself, if you wish."

"No need," Faramir said. "I will go."

At that moment a horn sounded outside, ringing over the city. They all started. "That is a horn of Gondor," the guards' lieutenant said. "They are summoning the soldiers to the walls."

Faramir's jaw set. "I will go _quickly._"

"Faramir, you cannot," Arwen said. "You are the Steward of Gondor. They need you in the lower levels now."

"She is right," Aragorn said. "The soldiers need a leader they trust, whom they will obey immediately and without question. I –" he broke off, and then finished quietly, "You are the best suited for that."

Faramir shook his head. "I _know_," he said. "But that madman is loose somewhere, and Éowyn . . ."

"She is safe," Arwen said. "Dragaer _left_. Likely he goes to join his army now." At Faramir's anguished look she stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm. "Ioreth already knows about the labor," she said gently. "The servants would have sent for her as soon as Éowyn left the hall. Likely she is already in the Steward's chambers, and the extent of my assistance will be to pass her a wet cloth when she asks for it."

Faramir's hands clenched. "I pray that it is as you say, my lady," he said with visible control. "I will do as I must. Only – please, take care of her."

He turned on his heel and strode from the room. Just past the threshold he paused and looked back at Aragorn. "Damn you, my lord," he said viciously. "May the Valar damn you for an eternity for bringing us to this pass."

Aragorn did not answer. When Faramir had gone he drew a deep breath and turned to the guards' commander. "Lieutentant, please escort the Queen to the Steward's chambers. Assist her in any way she requires, but keep a minimum of three men on guard outside her door at all times – and post someone on the balcony of her chamber as well."

"We will have men stationed down the corridor also, at the servants' entrance and the stairs," the lieutenant replied. "You may trust us, my lord."

"I know," Aragorn said. He looked at Arwen. "Be well, my love," he said. "Until we meet again."

Inclining his head to her, he turned away and moved toward the window. "Wait," Arwen said. "What are you going to do?"

Aragorn stopped, and turned slowly to look at her. Arwen's breath caught. Aragorn's eyes had hardened as chips of sea-grey ice. He had held himself in check during the conversation with Faramir, she knew, but his control was slipping, and only now did she realize how strong it must have been.

She had had reason to fear the darkness in Elessar before, but she had thought of that as something separate, alien to the true nature of the man she had loved. This now was Aragorn himself, whole, and though his anger was not directed at her it still chilled her with its power. There was fury in him such as she had not seen in the blackest times of the past year. She thought that even Sauron's agents upon the battlefield would not have seen him thus.

This was Aragorn in a killing rage.

"I am going to stop Dragaer," he said.

*~*~*

Aelon tried to follow Imrahil, but the mass of people surged against him like a tide, pushing him back as they fought to escape to the upper levels. He was buffeted on all sides by the screaming, terror-stricken crowd. Something struck him hard on the shoulder, and at the same moment a panicked sheep plunged into him. His knee buckled and he fell to the ground.

Struggling to regain his breath, he spied a young girl crumpled on the paving stones a few feet from him. He lunged forward and pulled her to him. One of his men caught his arm and helped him to his feet, staggering as the people rushed around them. They stumbled to the shelter of a doorway, and Aelon checked that the girl was still breathing. A lump was swelling above her eye, but she seemed otherwise unhurt.

"We'll never get to the gates like this," his sergeant gasped. "They'll trample us to death before we make it to the first level."

Aelon wanted to ask if the man had any more helpful comments, but at that moment a wave of sound rolled over them, drowning out all other noise. It was the great bells of Minas Tirith, ringing from the high tower of Mount Mindolluin. The people heard and halted their headlong flight, pressed to stillness by the tolling bells.

The bells stopped. In the echoing silence that followed Aelon fancied he could hear the clop of horses' hooves. For a wild moment he thought that the enemy had entered the city, and then he saw a train of horses cantering down from the upper levels. Lord Faramir was at their head.

The people fell back as the Steward passed, opening a path through the wreckage of shop stalls and pens. "Form groups of twenty," Faramir shouted to them. "Women and children together, each group follow your assigned guard back to the citadel. Men who are of age to fight come with me. To the first level!"

Everyone knew Faramir, and most of the men had served with him in the army. They cheered his orders and obeyed swiftly. Aelon watched in bemusement as the formerly panicked mob split into groups, the elderly helping the children while the men of age shouldered what weapons they could find and joined the train of knife and pitchfork wielding peasants behind the Steward.

Aelon handed the girl to a stout woman with a kind face and hurried down the street. Faramir was shouting instructions to the next crowd of people. Aelon took advantage of the new calm and led his men at a run past the Steward and through the gate to the first level. The street was clearer here – it seemed that most of the civilians had reached the second level at least.

Aelon left a man to bar the first level gate after the Steward had passed. He tore through the abandoned detritus of the market, jumping over splintered railings of merchant stalls and dodging goods that spilled across the stone cobbles. He reached the massive front gates just as Imrahil and his Knights streaked through them and out into the Pelennor.

Clutching a stitch in his side, Aelon labored up the spiral staircase into the nearest of the guard towers that pillared the huge gates. The door at top stood ajar, its lock broken. Aelon pushed it back and was met by a roar of heat and choking smoke. Coughing, Aelon held his sleeve over his mouth and nose, his eyes watering as he pushed his way inside.

The heat struck him like a wall. His skin tightened before it. Tears blurred his eyes and he dropped to his knees, struggling to see. The smoke was less thick here, and through the flicker of flame he caught a glimpse of a heavy steel bar jammed in between the portcullis' pulley teeth. He groped his way around the curve of the chamber to the side door and burst out into the cleaner air upon the city wall.

Smoke billowed out around him. Aelon leaned against the base of a stone lion that reared upon a parapet and tried to regain his breath. He could hear the crackle of the flames, and he did not have to see the smoke wafting from the second tower to know that both chambers were burning.

"Captain Aelon! Report!" Aelon looked down to see Lord Faramir astride his horse in the entrance yard, his battalion of commoners around him.

"Fire!" he shouted back. "We need water, my lord!"

Faramir hissed between his teeth. "You lot," he ordered, indicating about thirty of his followers. "Form a bucket chain to the well. The rest of you get to the walls. Aelon, take your men and shut those gates!"

Aelon cast a swift look over the wall. Imrahil and his Knights were an arrow streaking into the maw of the oncoming army, now scarcely 200 yards distant.

He took a deep breath and ran back into the guard chamber, doubling over to avoid the worst of the smoke. By the time he reached the main gates the rest of the men had gathered and were straining to pull them shut.

They creaked and moved fractionally, then stopped. Aelon swore and ran to add his strength to the men's but the gates were stuck fast. He stepped back, scanning them swiftly. There was no obstruction that he could see, but the massive doors did not move.

"My lord!" Aelon spun around. The man he had left at the gate between the first and second level was running toward them. Faramir had been inspecting the join between the gate and the city wall, but at the guard's shout he came out of the tower, frowning.

"Lord Faramir," the man gasped. "The inner gates have been disabled! The locks are broken – we can't seal off the upper levels!"

"_What?_" Faramir said. "Have you checked them all? How far –"

A scream from one of the peasants on the wall cut him off. Faramir looked up, and his face drained of color. Aelon followed his gaze out the open doors into the field beyond.

The enemy had broken through Imrahil's line. They thundered up the road from the Pelennor and through the open gates, scatting soldiers and commoners alike before their pounding hooves. A glancing blow from a horse's shoulder slammed Aelon back against the wall with such force that the wind was knocked from him. Faramir's horse reared. Through a haze of pain Aelon heard the Steward's cry as he raised his sword.

"_For Gondor!_"

The men on the city wall roared in answer. They rained down what weapons they had: arrows, rubbish, even burning logs pulled from the fires in the gatehouses. But the enemy was too great, and for every man who faltered under the onslaught twenty took his place. They surged unstoppable into the courtyard and plunged through the streets of the first level.

Minas Tirith was invaded.


	38. The Reckoning

**Warning:** This is another intense chapter. Themes include mental, physical, and sexual domination, rape, and death. But if you've made it this far, I think you'll want to read it.

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"Thorongil often counseled Ecthelion that the strength of the rebels in Umbar was a great peril to Gondor . . . At last he got leave of the Steward and gathered a small fleet, and he came to Umbar unlooked for by night, and there burned a great part of the ships of the Corsairs. He himself overthrew the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays . . ."

-- J.R.R. Tolkien, _Appendix A_, The Return of the King

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". . . I seek that essential region of the soul

where absolute evil confronts brotherhood."

-- André Malraux, _Lazare_

Chapter 37: The Reckoning

Minas Tirith was burning.

Aragorn saw the smoke rising from the first level. The invading Corsairs wielded torches with which they set alight the thatched roofs of the peasants' houses and the merchants' stalls and wares. A wool trader's booth went up in a sheet of flame that raised a black pillar of smoke to the sky.

The Corsairs filled the first level and still their army was pouring in through the open gates. Fighting had broken out along the outer wall where Captain Aelon and the King's Guard were pinned between the flanking wings of the invaders without and within the city. A bottleneck had developed at the gate to the second level: Faramir had fallen back with his men and was blocking the Corsairs' advance.

It would not last. Aragorn could see that now. Faramir had a few hundred soldiers at his command, and most of them were required to hold the passage against the enemy. There seemed to be something wrong with the gate that normally would have sealed off the second level. Already the Corsairs were raising ladders against the wall from the first level, and Faramir did not have the men to repel them. Soon he would be forced to retreat again, falling back to the third level that was still crowded with fleeing women and children.

Frustration welled within Aragorn, fueling the rage that threatened to consume him. Those were his people down there, men and women who had trusted their King to protect them and their children. Because of his actions they were vulnerable, without the men or arms to defend themselves. What soldiers remained hesitated to follow his orders now, and his presence on the battlefield would serve only to confuse and distract them. The Corsairs would fall upon his people without mercy, and there was nothing that Aragorn could do to stop them.

The balance of power was against him, and unless by some miracle Éomer arrived with the army in the next twenty minutes Minas Tirith would be lost. _So change the balance,_ Aragorn thought, and pushed away from the wall. He could not stop the invasion as king, commander, or warrior. But there was one man out there who _could _stop it. Aragorn would find the Corsair captain and force him to withdraw his men.

He did not contemplate what would happen if he failed. There had been failure and betrayal enough this past year: his failure of his people, his betrayal of Legolas. There was no room for it now. The whole world contracted to a single purpose: to find Dragaer and to make him pay for what he had done.

Aragorn ran across the courtyard, his eyes focused on the faint impressions in the grass that had led him here from the citadel garden and that now led on toward the connection with the sixth circle. The Corsair knew many things about him, but he might yet have underestimated his opponent's skill in following a trail. Where Elessar the King had failed, Strider the Ranger would succeed. There was no other option.

*~*~*

The void was no longer absolute. The darkness thinned, lessened by the light that shone constantly now from every thread of Legolas' self-constructed spirit cage. It lightened, too, as he neared the barrier that separated this place within from the world without.

There _was _a world outside the barrier. Legolas was certain of it, and though he could not remember why, a sense of urgency grew with every move that he made toward it. Somewhere in that half-remembered place he was needed. Something terrible was going to happen . . . was happening . . . had happened. He did not yet know what, or where, or who . . . but he soon would.

The knowledge was woven in the wires of memory and pain that formed the barrier's structure: a web of steel turned in and around itself. It stretched from the infinite depths into the immeasurable heights of the void, and every coruscating turn screamed with its own deadly light. Within its labyrinthine passages dark energy churned like boiling thunder clouds of purple and black, and lightning crackled between its twisted spires.

It was, of course, an illusion: no more or less real than the fragile shell that protected and anchored Legolas' own _faer._ He recognized this, and knew that what appeared here as storm and steel were in reality the walled-off agonies of his own mind. There was pain here, horror and betrayal preserved with perfect Elven memory.

Legolas faced it, and was afraid. The light here was too bright, stripping away the sheltering darkness of the void. Here the pain was real, immediate, and its razor-wired memory cut nearly as sharp as when first the hurt had occurred. It seemed impossible that he could pass through it and survive.

But, he thought, he _had _survived. He drifted closer, and as the gleaming wires reached for him there was a flash of memory: the feel of rough hands upon him, tearing open his tunic, hot breath upon his skin. He recoiled, but did not flee. Something horrible had happened then, he knew, and worse had followed. He had suffered that, and _lived._ He still lived. By the grace of Ilúvatar, by his own strength and what feeble shelter he had managed to create within his mind, he had passed through it once and come out alive, though not whole.

He would do so again. He had to. There was no time in the void, but in the world beyond the barrier it was running out. There was something he must do there, and though he did not yet know what it was the sense of fleeting opportunity kindled in him a kind of desperation.

He gathered himself and moved forward. The barrier closed around him, and as the pain took him he had a last, despairing thought.

_Before, it was the sea._

And the world was light.

*~*~*

As Arwen entered the Steward's chambers Lothíriel appeared at the bedroom door, her eyes lit with anticipation. Upon seeing the Queen her face fell, and despite the strain of the past few hours Arwen could not help but be amused at the girl's all too obvious disappointment.

"What is wrong?" she asked, coming into the entranceway.

"Your Majesty," Lothíriel said, and curtsied. The courtesy was excessive, for as Éomer's wife Lothíriel was now a queen and technically Arwen's equal in her own right, but Arwen did not trouble to correct her. The child had been married for only a few months, after all, and was clearly intimidated by the Elven Queen. And, Arwen admitted to herself, she had been so consumed with her own troubles these past few weeks that she had hardly seen Lothíriel, much less made the effort to put the girl at ease.

"I had hoped you were the healer," Lothíriel continued, and then blushed at her own bluntness. "That is, I mean, Lady Éowyn –"

"I understand," Arwen said. She glanced into the darkened bedroom. The air was warm and thick with the smell of sweat. In the dim light that filtered around the close-shut drapes she made out the form of Éowyn on the bed. Two serving girls stood close by. None of them, including Lothíriel, was older than sixteen.

"Ioreth is not here?"

"No!" Lothíriel looked worried. "We sent a page to fetch her, but there has been no word. There are a few maids here, but none of us have attended a lady in childbed before, and the guard told us that the city is under attack!"

"All right," Arwen said. "There's nothing we can do about that now. Let us focus on the problem at hand." She spoke as reassuringly as she could, pushing back her own wealth of fear and frustration as she did so. Rubbing absently at the abrasion on her wrist, she entered the bedroom.

Éowyn lay propped against a mound of pillows at the head of the large bed. Her hair clung in damp ringlets to her forehead and neck. A glass of water stood on the table beside her. She looked up at Arwen with a wry smile.

"Lovely timing, this, don't you think?"

Arwen smiled back. "My mother used to tell me that babes choose their own time to enter the world, and that is only the beginning of their stubbornness."

"Heh. And after weeks of waiting, this one chose to arrive in the midst of a battle." Éowyn broke off with a gasp, and a spasm of pain crossed her face. When she had recovered her breath she finished, "Perhaps she wants to be a warrior."

"A shield-maiden like her mother," Arwen murmured, taking Éowyn's hand. "Faramir will be delighted." Her fingers curled around to the inside of Éowyn's wrist. The young woman's pulse was racing.

Éowyn looked past Arwen to the door where Lothíriel stood watching them. "Where is Ioreth?"

"She's coming," Arwen said. To Lothíriel she added, "Could we open these windows? I can hardly get my breath."

One of the serving maids spoke up. "Your pardon, m'lady. Lady Ioreth says that bad vapours are harmful to the baby. She always keeps the windows closed during a birth."

Arwen blinked in surprise and looked at Éowyn. "Is that true? Would the air hurt a mortal child?"

"I do not know," Éowyn said. "In Rohan there are peasant women who give birth in the open fields – but perhaps being in the city makes a difference."

"H'm," Arwen said. "I do not know how it is with the Edain, but the air in here is definitely harmful to _me._ Open the windows. I will take responsibility."

Sunlight and fresh air streamed into the room as the maids threw back the heavy drapes and pushed open the windowpanes. Distantly Arwen heard shouting as well, and the clash of metal. She hoped that Éowyn's ears were not good enough to pick it up.

"I've a kettle of water heating on the sitting room fire," Lothíriel volunteered. "That is right, isn't it?"

Arwen smiled at her. "Yes, although I do not believe we will need it for awhile yet." She searched her memory, recalling the times that she had assisted her father in the birth chamber. "It is a pity there are no flowers, but we cannot gather them now. The spring air will have to do. And without Faramir . . . have you any male friends here?" she asked Éowyn. "Someone you trust implicitly?"

The other women looked at her in horror. "A _man?_" Lothíriel said. "In here, _now?_ My lady, you are not serious!"

"A male _faer _to balance and assist hers," Arwen said. "Of course it should be the father, but in an emergency Lord Elrond . . ." she trailed off under their stares. "Apparently not," she finished to herself.

"Faramir is doing exactly as he should at the moment," Éowyn said firmly. "And I –" she broke off, and the tendons in her neck stood out as she strained. When it had passed she finished, gasping, "I have never required a man to assist me, and I shall not begin now."

She pushed herself up to a sitting position and swung her legs off the edge of the bed. Arwen hastened to take her arm. "I should walk," Éowyn said. "Between the pains, Ioreth said I should walk."

"That's right," Arwen said, helping her to her feet. "Walk, and breathe through the pain. Let it help you. We'll bring you to the birth stool in no time."

Behind her, Lothíriel exchanged a wide-eyed look with the maid. "What is a birth stool?"

*~*~*

The women of Minas Tirith had taken charge of the city's evacuation. Within minutes of the Corsairs' invasion it was clear that every soldier was needed to fight, and so a group of clear-headed merchants' wives had simply pre-empted their duties and sent the men below. As new refugees arrived they guided them to shelter in the nobility's large stone houses of the sixth circle, for the great hall and throne room of the citadel itself were filled to capacity. A thin trickle of wounded were filtering to the Houses of Healing, but the intense fighting in the lower levels had trapped the most seriously injured below. Several of the more intrepid healers had gone down to give what aid they could on the front lines.

Aragorn skirted around the confusion, making his way through the narrow alleys behind the nobility's storehouses. The crowds obliterated any hope of a trail in the main streets, but Aragorn reasoned that Dragaer could not have taken that road in any case. In the dirt and straw behind the stables he found the imprint of a sailor's boot, and a rim of mud had edged Dragaer's right foot for several yards beyond that.

Aragorn tracked him swiftly, hurrying with head down past the intersections with the main streets where the people had gathered. The signs were sparse on the cobbled streets, but what few there were told a clear tale to Aragorn's eyes. Pebbles kicked from a scattering of gravel, a wet print at the edge of a puddle of dishwater . . . he willed the trail to turn into the fifth level and down to the Corsair army, but it continued on toward the eastern rim of the sixth circle, and the Houses of Healing.

The streets were quieter here, away from the noble estates and the crush of refugees. A deserted alley opened on a secluded greenway halfway along the wall between the gate and the Houses, one of the parks that the Elves had planted after the War. There Dragaer stood looking over the city.

He turned at Aragorn's approach. "Remarkable, Elessar. I had thought you left your palantír in Harad."

Ice and fire pulsed in alternate waves through Aragorn as he closed in on the Corsair. "And now you think otherwise just because I found you? You are an arrogant fool," he spat. "I do not require the palantír."

Dragaer tilted his head to one side. A mocking smile curved his lips. "No? Are you sure of that?"

When Aragorn did not answer he stepped back and swept his arm in a gesture that encompassed the battle, the fleeing civilians and the burning city. "Have you come to admire your handiwork, then? I cannot blame you. It is a magnificent sight."

Aragorn ignored this, keeping his eyes locked on Dragaer's. "Call off your army. Leave Gondor now and never return."

"Or you'll do what, exactly?" Dragaer said. "Your men are outnumbered. Your defenses are compromised. Your army is hundreds of miles away. How can you possibly threaten me?"

"So long as you are in this city you will never be safe," Aragorn said. "Minas Tirith has never been conquered. You can kill me, you can seal the gates closed. But when the army returns it will surround you. Every man, woman, and child in the city will be against you. Every servant will plot to overthrow you. Every morsel of bread will be tainted, every drop of wine poisoned. Your men will die in their beds, night after night. Weeks will pass in which you hardly eat and dare not sleep. You will go mad, you and any who survive you. You can take this city, but you will never keep it."

Dragaer held his gaze, studying him. "Do you think so?" he said at last. "There was a time when you were not so certain of your people's faith. Do you imagine that your councilors did not suspect that they were watched, or that the city leaders have forgotten? Your friends have seen you take their daughters and wives hostage to compel their loyalty. Would they forgive that so easily? Not an hour ago the whole city watched as you confessed to killing one of the Eldar – do you really think that they have not guessed the nature of that crime? After all they have seen their King do, would they _really _be so opposed to another taking his place?"

It was as if a cold hand closed upon Aragorn's heart at these words, but he kept his head high. He had no secrets left from this man, he knew, but he would be damned if he'd allow Dragaer to cow him now.

"They know the weakness in my blood," he said. "Perhaps I have fallen in the end, after all. I do not claim to be worthy of the crown, or of their loyalty. But the people of Gondor will _never _accept a conqueror."

Dragaer considered for a moment, and then shrugged. "We will learn the answer to that soon enough. Regardless, I have the city _now._ I will take it from you, and raze it to the ground, and you will watch while I do so. Nothing else matters. Regardless of what those backwater pirates believe, nothing else ever did."

Aragorn stared at him, fury now mingling with astonishment. "You would betray your own men?" he said. "_Why?_ Why have you done this to us – to Legolas, to my people? We've done nothing to you!"

"Nothing!" the Corsair laughed. "Is this nothing?" he indicated the long scar that ran down the side of his face. "Was destroying my home nothing? Was killing my father and usurping my birthright _nothing?_"

He paused, breathing hard. "Forty-five years it has been since the gallant Captain Thorongil sailed into Umbar under cover of darkness and burned the ships there. Forty-five years since the noble Men of Gondor fell upon a sleeping village and slaughtered the people in their beds. And _you _would accuse _me _of killing innocents?"

A chill ran through Aragorn. Dragaer's words evoked long buried memories of that night: screams of battle and ringing steel, fire reflected upon water. "I killed no innocents," he said. "Umbar was aligned with Sauron. The fleet would have destroyed Gondor had I not done it."

"So do the guilty ever seek to ease their conscience," sneered Dragaer. He walked toward Aragorn, his black eyes glittering. "So did Umbardacil say when he hounded us and drove us from our land. You weave a fabric of lies to clothe your children: that their fathers are good and right and just, and all the while you live in fear that the true heirs of Númenor will regain our rightful power and reclaim that which you stole from us."

The noise of battle from the circles below was growing louder, and the blood was roaring in Aragorn's ears. Did the Corsair truly intend to debate ancient history _now_? "The Black Númenoreans forsook the Valar," he said. "They rejected the judgment of the One and turned to worship Morgoth. They forfeited any claim to these lands long ago."

"And what of _my _claim?" Dragaer snarled. He took a step forward and stopped, seeming to hold himself in check. "My line is no less exalted than yours, and were it not that my father raided a warlord's harem in Rhûn your people would recognize me as their rightful King at first sight."

He ran a finger down the length of his scar. "I was ten years old," he said. "How deep could I possibly be in the Dark Lord's council? But of course the wise Thorongil did not care about that. He did not care when I was torn from my bed by invaders who held my mother at knifepoint and cut me when I tried to fight, nor did he care that I saw him split my father's heart with his sword.

"You have that sword still. Go and get it," Dragaer said. "I already have mine. It was hidden for me here days ago. Fetch the Sword of Kings, Thorongil of many names, and I will duel you while your city burns."

Aragorn did not move. "You believe that I have wronged you, fine," he said. "You want to kill me, so be it. But the people are innocent. Leave them in peace, and I will surrender. You may do with me what you will."

Dragaer stared at him. "You think you are noble, Elessar. Behold the King who sacrifices himself to save his people – how brave! How tragic! And doubtless they will sing your praises in gratitude, and your name will echo through the ages as the hero who saved Gondor."

In an instant he crossed the small distance between them, and his hands fisted in Aragorn's tunic, pulling the material tight about his throat. "When will you understand, it is not your death that I want. It is your annihilation."

He shoved Aragorn away. "I could have killed your Queen already. You do realize that, do you not? And if I cared only about hurting you _now _I would have done it. No. When she dies it will be slowly, in agony, and she will see you watching, and she will know that _you _caused her suffering. She will die cursing your name, and she will not be the only one.

"Your people will see their homes destroyed, their city brought to ruin, and know that _you _failed them. Your very name will be blotted out, drowned in the tide of blood that _your _hands unleashed. They will hate you, and teach their children to hate you, _forever._"

Aragorn was shaking. A red haze washed across his vision, rage beyond the capacity for rational thought. He did not think. He did not hesitate. He acted.

Throwing himself at Dragaer, he hooked one foot behind his leg even as his body slammed into the larger man. The Corsair fell hard on the grass with Aragorn on top of him, his hands locked on Dragaer's throat.

"If you will not withdraw, there is no reason to spare you," Aragorn growled, feeling the man's blood pounding beneath his hands. "I can kill you now."

Dragaer slammed a fist into Aragorn's face, snapping his head back. Pain exploded along his jaw, and his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. But he did not release his grip.

Dragaer's dusky skin was darkening, the veins of his forehead bulging with strain. He clawed at Aragorn's hands, and his body bucked once, then again more feebly. His lips moved, forming soundless words.

Aragorn slackened his hold fractionally. "All right," Dragaer gasped. "All right, I'll do it."

"You'll do what?" Aragorn demanded.

"I'll call them off."

"Swear it." Aragorn's fingers dug deeper into the soft flesh of the man's neck. He could feel the hammer-beat of Dragaer's lifeblood beneath his hands, and he ached to squeeze tighter, tighter, until it burst the capillaries beneath the Corsair's skin and flooded his eyes, until the man's struggles stopped and his breath died and his flesh grew cold.

"I swear!"

Aragorn released him. In the next moment Dragaer shoved him off and rolled upright, rubbing his throat.

"You want a deal, fine," he rasped. "I'll withdraw my men. I'll leave your precious city in peace. In return –" he coughed, and spat. "In return, you give yourself to me. And to ensure that you keep your promise . . . you choose one other to give me as well: either your Queen, or the Elf Prince."

*~*~*

The barrier howled around him. Memories like knives tore at him, shredding his defenses. Images and sensations slammed into him like driving hail, and he could not block, could not shield himself from them, because every one shone with the merciless, diamond hard light of truth.

Arod's hooves pounded a rhythm upon the sand, and he chanted in time to it: _I cannot remember, I cannot remember, I can_not _re_mem_ber._

But he had no choice.

Aragorn pinned him down and covered his nose and mouth with a cloth. Strange vapour burned in his lungs, flooding his limbs with lead.

Hard hands grasped him, scraped over his skin, and became the hands of the Corsair captain, pushing brutally into him. A hot mouth covered his, rough hair scraping his face, and he did not know if that were the Corsair, or Aragorn.

His body tore, his mind screaming in denial of what was happening to him – but it was _real._ It had happened, all of it, and he could not deny it any longer. The only way past the barrier was through it.

A figure bent over him, whispered against his ear in sickening parody of a lover's kiss. _I am your King, Legolas. I am your master, and you will remember that._

He recoiled, shuddering, and the pain of that memory opened vast and deep within him. Aragorn. Aragorn had said that to him.

The whole barrier convulsed with excruciating, blinding light, and it took every fiber of Legolas' strength to keep from breaking under the strain. The atom-thin webbing that sheltered his _faer _strained, and stretched, and slowly began to tear.

But when it had passed he was almost at the other side. He could sense the wires thinning and opening ahead of him. _Almost,_ he thought. _That was nearly the worst of it. Once more and it will be over, surely._

And he wondered what the worst could be, if it were not Aragorn's betrayal.

In that instant the barrier contracted, razors slicing into him, and a vast wave of iron slammed through him. Searing cold flooded him, drowning his mind, ripping apart the weakened fibers that were his last, dying defense.

A voice murmured over his agony: gentle, mocking words that were inextricably linked with his breaking.

_Hush. No more talking._

And the next wave hit.

*~*~*

"You are mad," Aragorn said. "You cannot possibly believe I would turn Arwen or Legolas over to you."

"Yet you gladly offer yourself to save your people," Dragaer countered. "Are you saying that they would not do the same?"

"It does not matter because _I _would not permit it," Aragorn said. "They have no tie or obligation to Gondor save through me – and that bond is broken now. Even if they volunteered I would stop them. Your vengeance is on me alone."

"You are their King," Dragaer said. "The sins of the sovereign are upon his people, as theirs are upon him. Their duty is to serve you."

Aragorn stared at him in disbelief. "They followed me because it was their _choice_, and an honor I did not deserve. Even now you cannot understand that."

"Oh, I understand well enough," Dragaer said. His voice still rasped with strain, but he smiled as if in reminiscence. "Your Queen is a beautiful creature – I do believe she is the most beautiful that I have ever known. And she has some spirit, does she not? But she is ultimately a woman, and soft. The Elf, now – _he _is a warrior. There is no softness in him, but steel worthy of a King's blade –"

Aragorn lunged at him, and Dragaer leaped back. His cutlass wicked up so swiftly that Aragorn glimpsed only the gleam of steel, and dodged by pure instinct. The blade sliced across his cheek.

"A reminder," Dragaer said, his sword level with Aragorn's throat. "Kill me and no one will stop my army. Defy me and I will kill you before I take your Queen and the Elf, though I would regret that. There is only one way you can save your people and them – one of them. Choose."

*~*~*

The Corsairs had taken the second level. Faramir fell back to the barricade that the townspeople were constructing behind the disabled third circle gate. The peasants had caught on quickly to his direction, and piled up the detritus of the abandoned market with rapid efficiency. They also added to the mound furnishings, carpets, utensils and cookware, all scrounged with apparent glee from the surrounding houses.

Seizing a moment's respite in the shelter of an upturned couch, Faramir glanced upward. He could not see the upper levels from here, but he knew what was there. The women, the old, and the children were huddled in the houses above, sheltering behind the thin line of his defense. Within the city's vulnerable heart, Éowyn was now bearing his child.

He simply did not have the men to hold the line. Soon he would be forced back again, and again, and every time he retreated he did so with fewer men. But, he thought with fierce pride, what men he had! They had not panicked, despite the Corsairs' overwhelming advantage. They followed orders, soldiers and commoners alike. They held true to him, and fought with determination and ingenuity – the barricade was proof of that.

They might lose the city, but the Corsairs would have to fight them every step of the way.

A blacksmith who had appointed himself Faramir's personal guard shouted warning: the first Corsair ladders were clanking into place along the third level wall. Faramir drew a deep breath and plunged back into the fray.

*~*~*

"I will not," Aragorn said.

"A King places his people above himself and his family," Dragaer mocked him. "He does not hesitate to sacrifice those whom he loves."

"Then I am no King," Aragorn said. "For I cannot sacrifice anyone but myself." He kicked his foot in a sweeping arc that knocked Dragaer's sword from his hand. He and the Corsair both dove for it.

In that moment they heard a new sound: horns, horns ringing over the smoke and noise of the city. In the lower levels the fighting paused as both Gondorians and Corsairs turned, looking for the source. In the shelter of the massive stone halls women lifted their heads and children quieted, listening. In the chambers of the Steward Lothíriel dashed to a window. Arwen, who was encouraging a red-faced and swearing Éowyn propped against the edge of a plain wooden chair, cocked her head for a moment in wonder.

Aragorn and Dragaer both ran to the wall. The lower two levels were in flames, the smoke drifting in a thick haze over the city. The six thousand strong Corsair army was now entirely within the walls. But outside the city a great force filled the Pelennor: rows of soldiers in perfect line, stretching almost to the limits of Aragorn's vision.

His first, wild thought was that Éomer had returned. But in the next instant he realized that the soldiers wore tunics of green and brown over their mail, and the ringing horns held a single clear note beyond any craft of Gondor or Rohan. A hundred banners flew green and gold over their heads, and the sigil of an oak leaf flashed bright in the sun.

The cavalry charged, and five hundred horses thundered into the city. Light and swift and fell they ran without constraint of saddle or bridle, and the archers upon their backs were firing as they came. Eight thousand foot soldiers marched behind, and the first regiments swarmed unaided up the city wall and leaped full into battle before the Corsairs realized they were there.

The army of Mirkwood had come to Gondor.

Aragorn stared in astonishment and growing joy as the Elves swept into the city. He turned to see the Corsair's reaction, but the small glade was empty.

Dragaer was gone.

*~*~*

"Lady Ioreth, _please._" The page's voice revealed an agony of impatience.

Ioreth did not look up from the bandage she was wrapping around a young soldier's thigh. "Can you not see that I am busy?"

"But Lady Éowyn needs you now!"

"Pshaw." Ioreth stepped back and eyed the wound critically. A stain was seeping through the tightly wound wrapping. She sighed and braced her hand against the large artery at the top of the inner thigh, leaning her weight against it.

"It will be hours before that babe is ready to enter the world. A woman's first child is always slow in coming."

"But –"

"I will come as quickly as I am able," Ioreth said firmly. "Now you can either take my workbasket up to the citadel for me, or you can get to work cleaning these bandages." She jerked her head toward a pile of blood soaked cloth. "You can do one or the other, but I want you out of my way."

The boy sighed and grabbed the heavy basket. Ioreth was busy rewrapping the bandage on the soldier's leg and did not watch him go. It was twenty minutes before she straightened, one hand pressed to her lower back, to find that the ward was empty but for herself and the day-nurse, who was moving between the rows of patients, checking pulse and temperature. The influx of wounded had stopped.

Ioreth instructed the nurse to send word to the citadel if she was needed and turned her steps toward a little used side-entrance of the Houses, intending to take the shortest route to the seventh circle gate. As she stepped out into the cobbled street she paused, thinking that she heard the distant sound of horns.

The door was just closing behind her when someone grabbed her arm. Ioreth startled badly, but before she could cry out a large hand clamped over her mouth.

"Be quiet," a voice rasped in her ear. "Do not move and I will not harm you." She went still, feeling the warm press of the man's body against her back. "Good," he said after a moment. "Now I am going to take my hand off your mouth. If you scream I will kill you. Do you understand?"

She nodded, her pulse racing high in her throat. Slowly the man's hand eased away from her face. She turned to face him. He was very tall, with a strong build, dressed in a sailor's tunic and trousers. A curved sword hung from the sash at his waist. Her eyes were drawn to it, and she saw the stain of blood along its edge.

"Where are you keeping the Elf?"

She stared at him, not sure that she had heard properly. He grabbed her shoulder, shaking her. "He is not in the room where he was before. Where have you taken him?"

"I –" her throat was dry. She swallowed and licked her lips. "I do not know."

"Liar!" he made as if to strike her, and she flinched. He lowered his hand. "You know where he is. Take me to him."

He had blocked the door from closing with his foot. Now he yanked it open and propelled Ioreth inside.

*~*~*

Aragorn did not need to search for the Corsair's trail this time. In this moment, with his plan in ruins and his men overwhelmed and fighting for their lives, with opportunity slipping through his fingers, there was only one place that Dragaer would go.

Aragorn knew it with a certainty deeper than rational thought or reason, felt it in every fiber of his being. He turned toward the Houses of Healing, and ran.

*~*~*

Gimli had never been so frustrated in his life. He could hear the sounds of battle outside, he could smell the smoke and when he poked his head out into the corridor he caught glimpses of the healers dashing about in a flurry over their patients. But here in the deepest reaches of the Houses all was quiet.

He positively ached to fight. His fingers were twitching, his heart pounding as adrenalin flooded his body. He picked up his battleaxe, holding it tight while he paced Legolas' room, but it did not help.

When the ringing began he paused, listening intently. Those sounded like no horns that he had ever heard in battle, but there was still something familiar about them. He could not think what it was, but he had the nagging feeling that he had heard something – not a battle horn, but perhaps something else – like it before.

He looked at Legolas. He had given up the attempt to reach the Elf mentally, but in this past hour there had been a change in him. Beneath their closed lids his eyes moved, flickering back and forth, and at times he would whimper softly, his face tightening as if in pain.

Gimli had tried to call a healer to see him, but they were all occupied with the battle. The best that he got was a promise from a harried nurse to come when she could. So he sat and waited, and held Legolas' hand as the long fingers occasionally moved and tightened over his own. When he could bear the sitting no longer he stood and paced, and always his eyes were fixed on his friend's face.

There was a knock on the bedroom door. "Finally," Gimli muttered, and crossed the room to open it. The Corsair captain was standing in the doorway.

Dwarves are pragmatic creatures. Where a Man might have wasted time in expressions of surprise or disbelief, Gimli recognized Dragaer and processed the implications in almost the same instant. He stepped back and raised his axe. But even as he did so the Corsair was moving. In a single fluid motion Dragaer raised his sword and plunged it into Gimli's chest.

Gimli's whole body jerked as what felt like a rod of white-hot iron slammed through him. His knees buckled, and distantly he heard a crash as his axe slipped from numb fingers and fell to the floor.

His mind raged, ordering him to pick it up, Dragaer was stepping over his splayed legs (when had he fallen?) and he had to stop him, he was striding to Legolas' bed and Gimli had to stop him, stop him stop st_ophimstophimstop – _

With a supreme effort, Gimli managed to lift one hand a few inches from the ground. His limbs were filled with lead, his chest a cavern of agony. His outstretched hand fell limply back to the floor. The world tunneled away into darkness.

*~*~*

_Screaming, blinding, shrieking pain . . . memories sharp as razors and truth like cut glass . . . the rope was burning and his wrists were slick with blood . . . the Corsair bent over him and the air was filled with the salt-smell of the sea . . ._

_Fury surged through him and shame overwhelmed him, and he was breaking but he would not, would not, _would not _give in, and always, always there was the sea. It filled the world, it was the backdrop against which his body tore and his soul was sundered, and the betrayal of his last refuge was no less acute for that it was of his own making._

The screaming stopped. The last wires of the barrier were thinning, opening before him, and the light softened as he neared the other side. It no longer blinded him.

Legolas paused, exhausted, drifting in the netherworld between unconsciousness and waking. He could yet refuse this path. His _faer _hung by the most tenuous thread: the shell that he had woven of bonds of love and loyalty was ripped completely apart, broken strands floating like autumn-ravaged cobwebs in a breeze. Those bonds held little power over him now. He could forsake them, let go and escape the body that anchored his suffering.

It was his last chance. If he went forward now he would not be able to retreat again. He knew that with the certainty that was imbued in every memory, every stroke of knowledge that had cut him in his journey through the barrier. By his own devices he had destroyed his only hope for peace while still within the circles of the world.

It had been necessary, the only way that he could survive. But the price was that he _had to _survive.

As he hesitated, torn between the oaths that he had made and the horror that lay in fulfilling them, a sound filtered to him. It was a cry of pain in a voice he had never heard make that sound before: a voice that _would not _cry out for anything less than a mortal wound.

Terror flooded through him: _Gimli!_ Throwing aside all other thought or caution Legolas flew forward, ripping through the last strands of the barrier, battling toward the soft and final light of consciousness.

*~*~*

Aragorn ran. He took the shortest route possible to the Houses, hurtling through the narrow alleyways that honeycombed the rim of the sixth circle. A crowd was gathering as curious women left the shelter of the stone houses to peer over the wall at the city below. Aragorn shot around and past them almost before they registered his presence.

He leaped the steps of the main entrance in a single stride. The marble entranceway was deserted. He forced himself to still, listening over the pounding of his heart. Faintly he caught a clatter of metal, and ran.

Ioreth was leaning against the wall at a junction of dimly lit corridors near the center of the complex. "That way, my lord!" she cried, pointing up the hall. "He's gone to the Elf's room. Hurry!"

She looked pale but unhurt. Aragorn barely slowed his stride as he noted this, healer's instincts ticking away in the back of his mind. He nodded his thanks and dashed on.

A nondescript door stood open halfway down the corridor. Aragorn shot through it and nearly fell over Gimli's body, which was stretched across the entrance. He saw the danger and jumped instinctively at the last moment: drawing on everything he had learned in a lifetime at Rivendell to land on his feet in the center of the room.

Dragaer spun to face him, a dripping cutlass in his hand. He stood at the head of Legolas' bed, on the far side from Aragorn. The Elf's body lay between them.

"Stop!" Aragorn shouted. "Get away from him!"

"Too late, Thorongil," Dragaer said. "So help me, you will see at least one whom you love die today." He raised his sword.

Aragorn looked around frantically. He had no sword. There had been no time to reach the armory but somehow he had to – there! Wonder of wonders, there was a short axe leaning against Legolas' bedside table. Aragorn grabbed it and hurled it end over end at the Corsair.

Dragaer dodged just in time. The axe rang against the stone wall behind him and clattered to the floor.

"You've lost, Dragaer," Aragorn said. "Your army is defeated. Surrender and it will go better for you."

"There will be a sharp edge to the executioner's axe, you mean?" Dragaer sneered. "You are generous indeed, Elessar. But I choose death on my own terms. Not even your Elves will be swift enough to save this one."

"Wait!" Aragorn cried as the Corsair raised his sword again. "Wait. It doesn't have to be this way."

Dragaer paused, watching him. Aragorn spread his hands. "You wanted me to suffer. I have suffered. You wanted me to lose everything. I have forfeited my honor; I have betrayed the trust of my people. I am not worthy to lead them. I know this. Leave now and I will go with you. We can still have our war: a private war."

Dragaer's eyes narrowed. "You would surrender yourself to me now? You have won."

"This isn't about strength of arms," Aragorn countered. "It never was. You could have killed me back in the greenway: instead you came here. My pain was more important to you than my death. Well, I am offering you the chance for ultimate victory. My pain, my body, my mind – all is yours for the taking."

Dragaer tilted his head, a curious light in his black eyes. Slowly he walked around the bed to face Aragorn, his cutlass held at his side. "Then you have made your choice."

Aragorn did not move. His heart was pounding.

Dragaer indicated the motionless Elf on the bed. "He is a compelling creature. I confess that I did not realize the strength of the spell he had laid on you . . . nor the power that his kind has over ours. Of course you have had the pleasure of two Elves serving you. I had wondered why, given the obvious charms of the Evenstar, you desired any other. But having tasted him for myself, I believe I understand."

"That is a lie," Aragorn snapped. "I _never –_"

Dragaer stepped back and raised his sword. "Your pain, Elessar. You gave yourself to me: _this _is our war. Here and now, this is how it is. Later we will retire – but there is a little time yet. Time for you to look and _see _what you have done, and why."

He stretched out one hand to stroke Legolas' cheek, but his eyes were locked on Aragorn. "Will you tell me that you never wanted him? Never, in all the years you were in the Wild, in all the time that he followed you, not once did your thoughts stray? Will you lie to yourself so completely, when your choice is plain before you? _I have seen your mind._ I know your darkest dreams, your most shameful desires."

Aragorn did not answer. As Dragaer had touched his cheek, Legolas' eyes had flickered. Aragorn fixed his gaze on the Corsair, giving no sign of what he saw.

"He was so strong, and so beautiful," Dragaer continued. "Where the Evenstar was night, he was day. What man could not love them both? And, having loved them, what man could resist mastering them both?"

Legolas' eyes opened. Aragorn stepped backward, one hand going to his chest as if stricken by the truth of what he heard. Dragaer moved after him, his back to the Elf.

"It is a shame that you could not finish it yourself, Elessar. You had but a glimpse of the glory of it, the power. He fought with everything he had, and when I entered him it was not just his body but his mind that I broke open to receive me."

Behind Dragaer, Legolas was rising to his feet. He balanced on the wooden edge of the bed frame, towering above them, his white tunic billowing around his slender shoulders like that of an avenging angel.

"He knew that you had betrayed him," Dragaer said. "He knew, and he cried when I took him . . . but do you know, I think that even then he still loved you."

Something, some flicker of anticipation, must have crossed Aragorn's face. Dragaer faltered, and turned to see Legolas standing over him. "What –" he began, but Legolas reached down and closed one hand around his throat.

"Hush," Legolas said. He squeezed, and Dragaer's face flushed, his eyes widening as his air was cut off. He clawed at the hand gripping his neck.

Legolas lifted him off the ground. Without apparent effort he maintained his balance on the thin edge of wood, holding the Corsair a foot above the ground as Dragaer's eyes bulged and his face began to purple. His cutlass clattered to the ground.

"No more talking." Legolas threw Dragaer across the room. The Corsair slammed into the wall opposite and slumped to the ground. Aragorn snatched up his sword, his fingers slipping on the blood that coated the handle, and drove it deep into Dragaer's chest. He felt the blade slide between the Corsair's ribs to pierce his heart.

He stood for a moment over the body, breathing hard. Then he turned.

Legolas had left the bed and crossed the room to the open doorway. He knelt and drew Gimli's head into his lap. Coming to stand beside him, Aragorn saw that the Dwarf's beard was matted with blood that had soaked his tunic. His eyes were closed, and his skin was grey and cold.


	39. Part IV: The Hands of the King

**Part IV: The Hands of the King**

**A/N:** Not exactly a warning, but this chapter does contain somewhat graphic descriptions of injuries, blood and childbirth. There's also some swearing, Middle-earth style.

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"You'll never know the hurt I suffered nor the pain I rise above,

And I'll never know the same about you, you holiness or your kind of love,

And it makes me feel so sorry."

– Bob Dylan, _Idiot Wind_

Chapter 38: The End of Secrets

The end came quickly. What courage or determination the Corsairs had mustered while they held the upper hand swiftly evaporated in the face of the Elven onslaught. All through the lower tiers of the city swords clattered to the ground as their owners turned and fled before the Mirkwood forces. What had been a formidable army degenerated into a rabble of pirates, each one intent on saving his own skin at the cost of his compatriots.

In the third circle Faramir found himself taking charge of the very battalion that had been on the verge of breaking through to the civilians sheltering in the upper levels. They sat huddled against the walls of the houses under the watchful eyes of Faramir's men. More streamed up from the lower levels to join them, surrendering to the first Gondorians they encountered and begging their protection from the oncoming army.

None of them showed any desire to risk the fury of the Elves below in a bid for freedom. Threats of abuse from their mortal captors were received with apparent indifference despite the Gondorians' very real anger. Indeed, in the immediate aftermath of battle Faramir's soldiers found themselves hard-pressed, not to guard the prisoners but to protect them from attempts at vigilante justice by the civilians who had joined the fight.

Faramir pushed his way through the confusion, skirting a line of soldiers that stood fast between a row of dispirited captives and a group of Gondorian men led by a huge butcher brandishing a meat cleaver.

"We're fine, sir," the sergeant said in response to Faramir's query, not taking his eyes off the crowd. "Look, I know you're upset," he added to the men before him. "But they're prisoners of war now, and we have to wait for the King to deal with them. If they're hanged I promise you'll get to see it. No you _can't_ save him the trouble!"

"How about we just turn 'em over to the Elves?" suggested the butcher. "_They're _not worried about prisoners of war, are they?"

At this a number of the Corsairs flinched and huddled closer together. "Now be reasonable," the sergeant said. "Maybe that's true and maybe it ain't, but it isn't their city now is it?"

As the Gondorians subsided into a disgruntled muttering Faramir clapped the sergeant on the back and moved on, edging his way around the makeshift barricade and into the second circle. He had scarcely cleared the disabled gate when a heavy-set Corsair slammed into him, knocking the sword from his hand. Faramir staggered back, pulling the dagger from his belt to defend himself, but the Corsair pushed past him and into the third level without a second look.

More crowded close behind the first, shouting and shoving each other in their scramble through the gate. Faramir grabbed his sword and got out of their way. In the relative shelter of a shop doorway he straightened, rubbing his chest where the Corsair had struck him. A new sound was coming up the winding cobbled street, a purposeful drumbeat marching behind the flight of the Corsairs. Blinking through the haze of smoke, Faramir caught his first glimpse of the source of their panic.

A phalanx of Elven soldiers rounded the bend. They filled the main street and poured through every side passage and alleyway as well, driving the scattered Corsairs before them like leaves before a storm. They came with swords unsheathed and lances fixed, their long hair braided away from faces that were fierce and fell.

Archers flew over the roofs and along the tops of the walls, keeping pace with the army below. The footsoldiers moved with a fleet, fluid grace, with no sign of the rigid lockstep that Faramir was accustomed to in an army march. And yet somehow their every third step struck exactly with the beat of the drum behind, so that their progress seemed almost a dance, though one of deadly purpose.

At their head strode an Elf clad in a simple brown and green tunic over a mail shirt, identical to that of the other soldiers. He was a head taller than the Silvan Elves who followed him, broader of shoulder and more powerfully built than the Elves Faramir had encountered in Ithilien. His rich golden hair shone in contrast to the shades of brown, black and auburn of the others.

He came with the swift power of a tiger's charge, and the naked sword in his hand was edged with blood. His eyes were clear and hard with an anger that brooked no quarter, gave no hope for mercy or understanding. Faramir had a fleeting thought that the soldiers behind him were superfluous: he could easily imagine whole armies crumbling before this one's wrath alone.

Apparently the Corsairs felt the same. The street behind him was deserted, and Faramir stood alone as the tall Elf came to face him and spoke in a voice taut with rage.

"Where is my son?"

*~*~*

Legolas cradled Gimli's head in his lap, his hand on the Dwarf's forehead. Aragorn dropped to his knees beside them. Gimli's beard was clotted with blood and plastered to his chest and neck, obstructing Aragorn's view. He pressed his hand against the chest, feeling for a heartbeat, but was frustrated by the mail shirt that Gimli wore beneath his tunic.

"He breathes," Legolas said. His head was bent close over the Dwarf's, the ends of his hair dipped in the blood that pooled on the stone floor.

Aragorn slid his fingers through the sticky mass of Gimli's hair to touch his neck, finding a thready beat there. It was weak, far too weak for a Dwarf, and almost human-fast. His skin was cold to the touch. He moved his hand down and found the wound that gaped below Gimli's collarbone.

"He's in shock," Aragorn said. "His chain mail deflected the sword. It missed his heart and lungs, but if it hit an artery . . ."

"Will he live?" Legolas' voice was strained. Aragorn, looking up, met the Elf's eyes for the first time.

"I don't know," he said. He pulled off his surcoat. "Lift up his shoulders," he said, and as Legolas obeyed he folded the garment in quarters and pushed it beneath Gimli, cushioning his upper back and neck. Legolas gently lowered the Dwarf to the floor while Aragorn took the casing from a pillow that had fallen from the bed. He folded the material into a pad and pressed it over the wound, bracing the heel of his hand against it.

Aragorn rose to his knees, leaning his full weight against the rapidly saturating cloth. "We need a healer," he grunted.

Legolas had beat him to the thought, for he was already on his feet and even as Aragorn spoke the Elf vanished into the corridor outside, returning minutes later with three healers in tow.

Aragorn found himself edged none too subtly aside as Lord Trypline took his place. The chief healer was unusually indifferent to his royal company: all his attention was focused on his patient as he kept pressure on the wound while barking orders to his subordinates.

"Get his feet up, Fergin, there are cushions on the bed, and someone get me a lamp – I can't see a thing. Tell them to prepare the surgery and call a stretcher, we'll have to move him – drat it all, can't we do something about this blasted beard?"

Legolas was standing well out of the way, his arms wrapped around himself and his eyes fixed on the sliver of Gimli's face visible between the healers' heads. Aragorn joined him, wiping his own bloody hands against his leggings. "You should sit down," he said, for Legolas was very pale.

The Elf shook his head once, a short jerk to the side. "Athelas," he said.

Aragorn blinked, not sure that he had heard correctly. "What was that?"

Legolas rounded on him. "_Athelas_," he hissed. "You are the King. Use it. Heal him."

"Legolas, I –" Aragorn stopped. He swallowed. "This is not the Black Breath. They have to stop the bleeding before –"

"You used it on me!"

Aragorn flinched, remembering the herb that he had steeped following the attack in his tent. Then he thought of a different attack, a much younger version of himself, alone and terrified in the south of Mirkwood. He wondered to which instance Legolas referred.

"You are an Elf. Your own body had the power to heal itself; you only had to be helped along the way. But Gimli is mortal. They have to stitch closed the vessels that have been damaged, to stop the bleeding, before he can begin to recover."

Legolas' face tightened. "After they have done this thing, you will heal him?"

"If he needs it, yes," Aragorn said. He did not voice his private fear – would Gimli answer if he called him? After all that the Dwarf had seen him do, had accused him of doing, would he trust Aragorn enough to respond?

He met the challenge in Legolas' eyes. "Yes," he said.

Legolas held his gaze for a long moment. "And what price will you have me pay in exchange for his life?" he said softly.

Aragorn recoiled as if he had been struck. Before he could speak Legolas turned away, following the healers as they lifted Gimli upon a stretcher and carried him from the room. Aragorn remained behind, his body shaking as he fought for control.

Finally he turned to the aides who waited next to Legolas' empty bed. "Take that to the Silent Street," he said, pointing to where Dragaer's body lay crumpled against the far wall, the hilt of his sword still protruding from his chest. "We will deal with it later."

As they bowed he turned and hurried from the room. He strode through the Houses, breathing hard, the sweat cold on his skin. He caught up with Legolas in a wide corridor, where the Elf was pacing just outside the surgery doors.

"You should be in bed," he said.

Legolas snorted. "Forgive me if I do not trust your judgment of what I should or should not do."

"Legolas . . ." Aragorn made to catch the Elf's arm as he passed, but then thought better of it. "Driving yourself to collapse will not help Gimli. After all that you've been through –"

"You know _nothing_ of what I've been through!" Legolas snapped. His hands were clenched into fists, every line of his slender frame strung taut as he continued to pace. Several minutes ticked past in silence before Legolas spoke again, without looking at Aragorn.

"Dragaer is dead. Why are you not out arresting his men?"

"My command over Gondor's forces is severely curtailed at present," Aragorn said quietly. "And . . . I think that the Corsairs have rather more to worry about at the moment than imprisonment."

"They invaded?" Legolas' head snapped up. "Then you returned in time. You brought the army back."

"Not . . . not exactly," Aragorn admitted. His insides curled in shame at the thought of this: the culmination of his failures. "Your warning was well received, but I could not wait for the army. I rode back alone, and they . . . have been delayed."

Legolas stared at him. "Then how –"

"Legolas!" A powerfully built Elf had rounded the corner, a retinue of warriors and a few harried-looking Men hurrying in his wake. Legolas whipped around, but in the next instant he was engulfed in a massive hug.

"_Ion nín, ú-goe elye gwannen_."1

"Do not touch me!" Legolas broke free and backed against the wall, panting. Silence fell as they all stared at him. Anger rose hot and bitter in Aragorn's chest, and he averted his gaze, knowing how Legolas would hate having witnesses to his panic. In that moment Aragorn wished that Dragaer were alive so that he could kill him again, slowly.

Gradually the wild look faded from Legolas' eyes. "_Adar_," he whispered.2 He looked around at the assembled Elves. "Farothlin. Ellomë. Forgive me, I – I did not expect you."

"Obviously," a black-haired Elf said. He was smiling, but tears shone in his eyes.

"Legolas," Thranduil said. He took a step forward, but Legolas edged away. "My lord," he said. "I . . . I cannot . . ."

He backed into the open corridor. For an instant his eyes met his father's, and Aragorn's heart ached to see the misery in his face. Then Legolas straightened, visibly pulling dignity about him like a threadbare cloak.

"Forgive me," he said again, and fled.

Aragorn was left facing the Elvenking of Eryn Lasgalen. Thranduil stood staring after Legolas for a moment, and then turned.

"King Elessar," he bowed, one hand held over his heart. The warriors behind him followed suit. "We regret the trespass upon Gondor's territory. There was no time to seek permission, but it was not our intention to infringe upon your sovereignty. We will of course make restitution for any damage that our passage has done to your people's crops or fields."

"King Thranduil," Aragorn bowed in return, his heart pounding. As always, Thranduil's regard had the power to strip him back to the callow, frightened youth that he had been when first he stood in Mirkwood's court. He knew that he deserved to answer to Legolas' father for what had happened to his son. But the prospect still terrified him.

He gathered himself and spoke as befit a ruler of the Gondorian people, however unworthy he felt of the title. "No coming could be more welcome than that of the honored warriors of Eryn Lasgalen. Our city and our people owe you their lives. Gondor is in your debt."

Thranduil fixed him with a steady gaze. "The Men of Gondor fought long and valiantly against the Enemy of the Free Peoples. It is our honor to aid our allies, but we do not seek to meddle in the affairs of Men. The prisoners are of course yours to deal with as you will."

"Thank you," Aragorn said, and waited. He thought he knew what was coming next.

Thranduil took a breath. "It is however our belief that some members of the Corsair army committed crimes against a citizen of Eryn Lasgalen. We ask that those individuals be rendered to us for suitable punishment."

"One of the Men responsible is dead," Aragorn said. "The others will be judged according to their actions. I believe that we can come to an agreement regarding their fate."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "I am sure that we will," he said. "With your permission, then, we will leave the captives to you and withdraw. We will camp in the Pelennor while we await the satisfactory resolution of this matter."

His meaning was plain. Aragorn thought briefly of the weighty conferences, often lasting weeks, that seemed necessary whenever a major decision was to be made in Rivendell or Lothlórien. Somehow he had the feeling that the King of former Mirkwood would not be so patient.

"Of course," he said. Thranduil bowed again and turned away.

Aragorn swallowed. "About Legolas –"

Thranduil paused. He looked again at Aragorn, and his grey eyes were like steel. "I will learn everything that has happened to my son while he was a guest in your care. But now I have an army to attend to."

Aragorn nodded mutely. He stood numb while the Elves and their attendants departed. He remained motionless in the empty corridor for several minutes, and then slowly his back curved and his shoulders slumped. He sagged against the wall next to the surgery doors and covered his eyes with one hand. For a time there was no sound but the harshness of his breathing.

Then he straightened, and went out into the city.

He found Faramir in the third level, directing his men as they rounded up the Corsair captives.

"There are too many for the dungeons," Faramir was saying to a group of lieutenants. "Eru knows we can't take them up to the courtyard – it's full of our people. We need more walls and more guards. . ." he saw Aragorn, and stopped. The men around him straightened, turning to look.

"The Elves are withdrawing to the Pelennor Fields," Aragorn said into the silence. "I am certain that the Elvenking will be happy to assign as many of his people as you need for guards. Disarm the Corsairs and let them camp between the Elves and the city wall. I doubt many will try to escape . . . and those that do will not get far."

Faramir's eyes narrowed as he stared at Aragorn for a long moment. Then he turned to his men. "Well, you heard him. Get them down to the first level. I'll speak to King Thranduil."

When they had gone he turned back to Aragorn. "You found the Captain, I presume?"

"Yes," Aragorn said. "And the Captain . . . found Legolas. He will not get up again."

"Good." Faramir fell silent, his jaw tightening. His eyes were fixed on the rubble at their feet. "I . . . regret that I did not listen to you when first you warned me of the Corsairs' coming. Lives have been lost because I refused to believe – and were it not for the Elves . . ."

"Faramir," Aragorn said softly. "It is not your actions that brought us to this. I gave you little reason for trust." He drew a breath. "The Council has yet to render its verdict. I am your prisoner, if you wish it."

Faramir shook his head. "I knew your true heart the moment you saw that Corsair lay hands upon the Queen." He looked up and met Aragorn's gaze. "I do not yet know if you can again be my King . . . but you are not my prisoner."

Aragorn could not speak. He looked away, his lips pressed tight to ward off the lump in his throat.

"Is there anything else, my lord?" Faramir said.

Aragorn swallowed. "Yes," he said. "There are wounded here, and too few healers. I want to help."

*~*~*

Arwen was worried. She tried to conceal it from Lothíriel and the maids, but a growing fear was gnawing at her. Éowyn's labor was taking too long.

Surely it was not normal for mortals to strain for so long without result? Éowyn's water had broken hours ago, she was red-faced and exhausted, but still there was no sign of the coming baby.

Lothíriel was hovering at Arwen's elbow, watching anxiously as she pressed her hand against the bulge of Éowyn's belly. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

"I'm feeling how far the baby has entered into her passage," Arwen replied. She was also trying to sense the infant's unique tone in Ilúvatar's Song, to find resonance with the small life and to encourage it along, but she was not about to explain that to the Adan.3

Éowyn caught her breath and bore down, tears starting in her eyes as she strained. "Breathe!" Arwen said. "Remember to breathe!"

"I am breathing!" Éowyn shouted back. "I – Morgoth's balls!"

Arwen crouched down between Éowyn's legs. "That's it! Keep pushing, we should see the head now. Yes, I can see – oh. Oh. That cannot be right."

"What?" Éowyn demanded. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Arwen said quickly. "Nothing. Just – relax for a moment. Breathe. Keep breathing. I'll be right back."

She backed into the sitting room, closed the door and leaned against it. "Dear Elbereth," she whispered aloud. "What do I do?"

Her ears caught the sound of footsteps in the hall, and an exchange of voices outside the door. The chamber door opened and Ioreth bustled inside.

Arwen could have collapsed in relief. Instead she hurried forward. "Ioreth! Thank the Valar that you're here – there's something wrong. I've never seen anything like this!" She fought the urge to pluck at the woman's sleeve.

"All right," Ioreth said calmly. "Let's take a look." She pushed open the bedroom door.

Ignoring the exclamations of the other women, Ioreth produced a small stool and plunked it down between Éowyn's knees. Hunkering down, she inserted a hand between the young woman's legs.

"Ah," she said. "It's a breech. Nothing to worry about."

"It's a what?" Arwen said.

"A breech." Ioreth had both hands between Éowyn's legs now. She did not look up. "The baby is turned so that instead of being delivered head down, it is coming backside first."

Arwen's stomach lurched. "That happens among mortals?" she asked faintly, but the old woman was busy and did not hear.

"Now I want you to get ready," Ioreth said to Éowyn. "When the next contraction comes, bear down as hard as you can. I have hold of the baby and I'm going to guide it gently while you push. We're going to deliver this one as fast as we can, all right?"

"Wonderful idea," Éowyn gasped.

"What happens if you can't deliver the baby quickly enough?" Lothíriel whispered.

"It might suffocate," Ioreth said, too quietly for Éowyn to hear.

Arwen's heart seemed to constrict in her chest. Her airway had closed to a pinpoint, her breath was whistling high and thin in her throat. Unnoticed by the other women, she groped for the door behind her and slipped out into the sitting room.

The noise of battle outside had ceased. Glancing out the window, she saw the remains of smoke drifting in the air, but the fires in the lower levels had been extinguished. The shadow of the mountain stretched over the courtyard, which was crowded with soldiers and refugees alike reuniting with their loved ones.

Arwen crossed to the chamber door and stepped out into the corridor. The air here was cooler, without the heat and smells of the birthroom, and she breathed deeply, trying to slow the pounding of her heart.

"Your Majesty?" There were three guards outside Éowyn's door, all looking at her curiously. Arwen shook her head. She could not speak.

She hurried away down the corridor, hearing one of the Men fall into step behind her. She ignored him, striding faster, her heels ringing on the stone floor. She was still wearing the gown from the trial that morning, though she had abandoned the crown in the throne room. The heavy fabric billowed behind her as she broke into a run, her breath laboring in her lungs, her heart a spike against her ribs.

Reaching her own chambers at last, she wrenched open the door and plunged inside. She crossed the entranceway in two strides and pushed open the bedroom door.

The open windows revealed a sky lit red and gold by the setting sun, and Aragorn was silhouetted before them.

Arwen froze upon the threshold, her hand going to her chest.

"What are you doing here?" She spoke without thinking, her voice made harsh by the tightness of her throat.

There was a pause. "I'm sorry," Aragorn said. "I'll go."

But he did not move, and Arwen realized that he was waiting for her to step aside out of the doorway so that he would not have to push past her to leave.

Once she would have done so immediately, as much out of a reluctance to be within arm's reach of him as out of the instinct to satisfy his wishes, to deny him cause for impatience with her. But now she saw him standing there, bowed with weariness in the half-light, and all the pain and fear and uncertainty that she had endured all these months welled up within her to join the panic hammering through her veins, and it came to her with startling clarity that she did not have to fear him any longer.

She was Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond, daughter's daughter of Galadriel, Evenstar of her people, and she was done being afraid.

She took three swift strides forward, drawing back her hand, and slapped him across the face. She put her full weight into the blow, so that his head snapped around and the sound cracked in the quiet room.

Aragorn gasped, raising his hand to his cheek, and it was then that she saw the blood that had dried upon his skin and stained his collar russet. There was a cut high over his cheekbone, a remnant from an earlier battle that day. For a fleeting instant she felt the urge to tend it, to bathe it clean and bandage it: to care. She pushed the impulse aside.

"You son of an Orc," she spat. Her chest was heaving as she fought for breath, her hands balled into fists and shaking. "I loved you! I believed in you, I sent Legolas to you – you misbegotten Orc-spawned Morgoth-born _bastard!_"

She aimed to strike him again, with her closed fist this time, but he avoided the blow, backing toward the wall.

"Arwen, I swear, I never meant to hurt you," he said. His hands were stretched before him, beseeching. "I have done so, I know, and I would give anything to undo the harm I caused you. Whatever you ask of me I will do."

The blood was pounding in her ears, drowning his words. She stormed after him, glaring at him.

"I made my choice for you – even if I left, even if a ship would have me, I could not change it now. I am going to _die _for you! And you took my promise, and all the time you wanted him, you were lusting after _him!_"

She was crying now, saying things she had never articulated before, had not even realized she thought before, but in the rage that boiled through her she believed them to be true.

"Eru, Arwen, no! I loved you – I do love you! With all my heart I love you! Legolas is my friend, my brother –"

"And you killed him! I was not enough for you – no, you must have two Elves die for you!"

This was a blow more cutting than any physical pain she could give him. She felt it slam into him, saw him stumble backward, the blood draining from his face.

"You were at the trial," he said. "You heard Dragaer, you know that he did this to me – it was his hate, his lust in my mind. He raped Legolas, not I. You know this."

She stopped. Looking into his eyes, she saw the pain there, darkening their clear silver to pewter grey.

"And you fought him with every ounce of your strength, did you?" She heard the bitterness in her own voice. "You who defeated Sauron, a Maia of the Valar – you succumbed only after he beat you down and forced a desire upon you completely alien to anything you had ever felt before. You never, never in your deepest, most secret imaginings, never in your darkest moments . . . you _never _desired him?"

Aragorn swallowed. His eyes closed, and she thought that he tried to avoid her gaze. But then he drew a breath, and looked directly into her eyes.

"I did not believe that I did," he said, and his voice was ragged to match the agony in her heart. "It would have killed me to think that I could betray you – that I could betray him. But I have done so, and it is a horror greater than I can bear. Dragaer is dead, and I think his influence is gone from my mind, so I must face that part of me that fed upon his lies and hurt the Lady of my heart, and preyed upon the trust of my closest friend."

Arwen felt her fury ebb in the face of his remorse. Even now she hated to see him in pain. She sank down upon the edge of the bed as the strength flowed from her legs. "He is dead?"

"Killed by Legolas' hand," Aragorn said. "Though I made certain of it. And the Elves have come, and the Corsairs have surrendered. It is over."

"Legolas is awake?"

"Yes." The barest ghost of a smile played around Aragorn's lips. "It was a . . . memorable awakening."

Arwen did not smile. "So it has come to this," she whispered. "And I am yet mortal, and subject to a mortal's weakness." She thought of Éowyn and her heart beat faster in fear.

Aragorn's gaze sharpened. She felt him looking at her, truly _seeing _her for the first time. Instinctively she closed her arms across her belly, shielding herself from his eyes.

"Elbereth Gilthoniel," he breathed. "How long?"

She did not answer. He dropped to his knees beside her, looking up at her. His calloused, scratched and bloodstained hands closed over hers. "Months, at least," he said. "You kept this from me? Why?"

She looked away. "Need you to ask?"

His breath caught. She heard the hitch of it, the rasp in his throat when he next spoke. "You believed that I would hurt my child?"

The tears streamed hot down her cheeks, and still she did not look at him. "He is your son. He was your heir – and a rival to your throne."

"My son," he said, and bowed his head down against the swell of her belly. His arms encircled her waist, clutching her tight. She felt the heat of his tears through her dress. "Forgive me. Dear Eru, that I could make you fear such a thing . . . forgive me. Forgive me Arwen, _Tinúviel_, my love, my life . . . forgive me."

Something gave way inside her; the pressure she had borne for so long broke in a strangled sob. She turned her face toward the open windows, and let him hold her as the light faded from the sky and the room grew dark.

* * *

1 _Ion nín, ú-goe elye gwannen._ My son, I feared we had lost you.

2 _Adar:_ Father.

3 Adan: Singular of Edain, mortal or Man. Intended in this instance as "mortal," since Lothíriel is not a "man," but she is a female "Man," and I felt that the Sindarin word for mortal woman, _firieth_, was too obscure, at least for me.


	40. The Needs of the Many

**A/N:** I didn't want to do this. I really, really didn't. I'm sorry. **Warning:** Character death (but not Gimli, Aragorn or Legolas).

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"His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him that Nature might stand up and say to all the world, _this was a man_."

– William Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar_

Chapter 39: The Needs of the Many

The sun had long since sunk behind the hills and the stars were opening in the deep velvet sky when Faramir finally trailed across the courtyard toward the citadel. Every muscle in his body ached. His sword was a lead weight dragging at his side, pulling him off balance with every step.

Most of the city dwellers had returned to their own homes, but the farmers and merchants who had traveled to Minas Tirith for the market had set up their tents on the courtyard grass. Those who had no tents, or whose belongings had been destroyed in the battle, were sheltering in the great hall for the night. The Corsairs had been disarmed and exiled to camp outside the city wall with a mixed guard of Gondorians and Elves set over them. The tents of the Elven army were lit from within, surrounding the Corsair captives and filling the Pelennor fields like so many thousands of festival lamps floating in a sea of darkness.

The fires were extinguished and the city gates shut at last, but a sense of unease pervaded the city. Gondor had stood proudly alone against Mordor for centuries, and it shook the people of Minas Tirith to realize how close this invasion had come to succeeding. In the absence of Gondor's army they were wholly dependent upon the Elves to protect them from the enemy outside their gates. Faramir saw the disquiet of that knowledge in the people's faces, the unease with which they watched Thranduil's soldiers lead their prisoners out of the city.

The Elvenking had agreed readily to Faramir's request that they guard the Corsair army. Indeed Faramir had the impression that Thranduil had anticipated him and already made the preparations, but waited out of courtesy for the Gondorians to formally ask for assistance. It was the sort of instinctive diplomacy that Faramir had grown accustomed to in his dealings with Legolas in Ithilien.

And watching him, Faramir could see something of Legolas in Thranduil . . . or perhaps it was the Elvenking that he saw in his son. The physical resemblance was unmistakable, for though Thranduil was taller and broader of shoulder than Legolas and his hair was a deeper gold, they had the same high cheekbones, the same eyes. Yet more than that, there was a sense of heightened awareness and strength about Thranduil that was very like his son.

But where Faramir had seen Legolas' full power only rarely, in moments of stress or battle, Thranduil constantly radiated that dangerous aura. And Faramir thought that he understood. Thranduil was afraid for his son, and he was ruthlessly suppressing that fear in order to do now what needed to be done. The intensity of his focus, of his control, shone through in everything that he did and would continue to do so, Faramir suspected, until Legolas was safe and whole again.

The Elvenking's power was striking, but he was not alone in sublimating personal desires to the demands of duty. All of them, from the lowliest foot soldiers to the commanders to the ruling lords, were anxious to learn the fate of their loved ones, and terrified of what that fate might be.

Faramir witnessed dozens of small dramas over the course of the long afternoon, as people trickled through the ruins of the market and the burned-out houses in the lower levels, as the injured were carried to safety, as wives were reunited with husbands, parents with children feared lost in the siege. The reunions were brief, as men clutched their wives close, as women hugged sobbing children to their breasts . . . and then they separated, took the children to safety, and returned to work helping others.

These were his people, Faramir thought with a sort of dazed pride. Later there would be time for gathering and feasts, time to celebrate their victory and time to mourn their dead. Now they had work to do.

The chief difference was that their leaders did not have the luxury of taking care of their families before the rest. The needs of the people came first, as they had always done, but never had Faramir felt his duty more onerous than now.

There had been no word or sign of Imrahil. The Prince of Dol Amroth had led fifty Knights in a charge straight to the heart of the massive Corsair army: a last, desperate bid to buy time for the sabotaged gates to close. All through the battle Faramir had clung to the hope that somehow they had survived, that Imrahil was alive. But as the hours passed and the setting sun stretched the hills' shadows long over the fields Faramir knew that hope was all but lost.

And as much as he wanted to go out into the Pelennor, to search for his uncle, a hundred times more he ached to run to the citadel, to find Éowyn, to make sure that she was safe. And he could not.

He could not. The city's command was like an anchor dragging him down, rooting his feet in the blackened timbers and scorched stones of the second circle, binding him fast to the needs and fears and questions of families other than his own.

And he resented them for it. He knew that it was wrong; he was sick with shame and he berated himself endlessly . . . but he could not change his heart. He thought of Boromir, who had led his soldiers with the same devotion that he showed his brother as a child; of Denethor who had never failed to put his duty as Steward before his family, even at the cost of a wife he loved. It made no difference. He could not deny the pain he felt, the longing to just this once take care of _his _family first, to make sure that _his _loved ones were safe before he tended to others.

He hid his traitorous feelings as best he could: burying himself in the demands of the city as he oversaw the removal of the dead, the rescue of the wounded, the distribution of water and food and shelter and a thousand other details necessary for the survivors. He knew that he was sharper than usual with his subordinates, that the pressure building inside him drove him to impatience. It was that same pressure that fired the intensity he saw in the Elvenking's eyes. Even the sub-commanders felt it, to a lesser degree. It affected them all.

Except for Aragorn. Faramir watched from the corner of his eye as the Ranger cum King moved between the long rows of wounded. He had gathered up the men left idle after the battle and set them to work clearing the wreckage from the undercroft of a large storehouse in the second level. In a short time they had fashioned a sheltered ward of sorts where patients could be brought in out of the smoke and dust, and Aragorn set them to finding and carrying the wounded there, where the healers triaged them.

The men followed him without question. He made no claim of command over them. He did not even give orders that Faramir could see. But he made suggestions with the swift, decisive authority of one who is used to being obeyed, and the people responded. Aragorn no longer wore the crown, but he could not deny his nature. Faced with a crisis, he unconsciously rose to lead.

Certainly he looked nothing like a King. He had lost the simple red surcoat that he'd worn at the trial and his shirt was grey with dust and stained with sweat and blood. There was an ugly cut above his cheek and the blood had dried in a trail down the side of his face and neck.

But the people did not seem to notice. They looked at his eyes, clear grey behind the disheveled strands of his hair, and listened to the quiet assurance of his voice, and they followed him gladly though he did not ask it of them.

Even Faramir was affected, though he tried to resist. There was an area of calm around Aragorn – _Aragorn_, Faramir found himself thinking of him, for as he was now could not be more different from the King Elessar that Faramir had known this past year. He inspired confidence, a sense of peace and wellbeing that triumphed over the confusion of the battle's aftermath. Faramir gravitated toward that quiet authority, feeling his gentle presence like a balm upon the ache in his heart.

He had to shake himself out of it, reminding himself viciously of the palantír, of the Tower, of Éowyn weeping, clinging to him in the dark of the prison cell. Elessar – _Aragorn _– had been responsible for that, had threatened his life and the life of his wife, of his child. He had succumbed to this man's charms once before, had believed him to be just and good and wise, had vowed obedience to him as the heir of Isildur and Elendil, the King who had returned at last. And he had nearly died for it. His people had suffered for it. _Worse, _his traitorous heart added, _Éowyn_ had suffered for it.

Dare he succumb again?

Watching him, Faramir saw that he was not unaffected by the demands upon him after all. The other healers moved quickly between their patients, ignoring the dying in favor of those within reach of their medicines, or else becoming impatient and snappish as Faramir himself was snappish with fatigue. It was a defense, a shield they created between themselves and the unbearable duty before them: the price of deciding who would live and who would die.

Aragorn was different. He went first to those who could be saved, as was necessary. But he went also to those for whom it could not possibly make any difference, to lift a cup of water to graying lips, to lay a hand upon a brow cold with sweat, or simply to stand for a moment with bowed head over the body of a boy not yet full grown, who now would never be.

He made no barrier, no separation between himself and the hurt and the dying. He accepted their pain and their suffering, and though it plainly cost him he did not shy away.

As the afternoon wore on Aragorn's face grew grey, his back curved and his shoulders drawn in as if an unseen weight were pressing down upon him. His movements slowed, and though he refused to rest he would at times stop and stand, swaying, with eyes closed for a long moment before moving to the next patient.

This was no mystic healing, Faramir thought. There was no laying of hands, no magical herbs or mental contact that he could see. Aragorn _did _touch them, all of them, laying his hand against a fevered cheek or cupping a blood-slicked hand while he spoke to them. They responded to his words, to his voice and to his look as much as to his touch. The energy that flowed between them, from healer to patient, from King to subject, was no gift of grace or divine blessing.

It was a penance.

Aragorn had taken this burden upon himself. He gave himself up to them, and they took from him unthinking, with the blind, needful greed of the sick and injured. They were draining him, leeching the spirit from him and dragging him down even as a drowning man will pull down his rescuer.

There were too many of them. As much as he could give they would take, and more, until they drained him completely and he collapsed insensible to the floor.

Faramir intervened first. One of his lieutenants, sweat soaked and streaked with dirt and soot, had come to report that the city gates were finally closed. As they stood conferring a few yards from the healers' shelter Aragorn emerged into the small courtyard. He looked for a moment up into the patchwork sky visible between the scorched buildings, painted now with the ruddy hues of sunset. Then he leaned against the doorpost, allowing his head to fall back as his eyes closed.

His report finished, Faramir dismissed the lieutenant and told him to send his men home. When the man had gone he remained, rocking uncertainly on his heels while he studied the King. Finally he approached.

"My lord." He cleared his throat. "Elessar."

Aragorn gave no sign that he had heard. Faramir shook him gently by the shoulder. "Aragorn."

Aragorn blinked and looked around. His eyes were dull, his face lined with weariness. He stared blankly at Faramir for a moment, and then his eyes cleared.

"Faramir," he straightened. "What do you need?"

"It is rather what you need," Faramir replied. "Go home, my lord. Get some rest."

Aragorn rubbed a hand over his face. "Thank you, but I'm fine. I just needed a moment."

"You need more than a moment," Faramir said. "You're half-dead on your feet. The worst is over now. Let the healers work, and get some sleep."

"No. No, I must –" Aragorn stopped, and shook his head as if to clear it. "I must go back inside." He turned away.

Faramir caught his arm. "You'll do them no good like this," he said. "The people need you whole." He broke off, shaken by the implications of his own words. But Aragorn did not notice.

"I must go." He pulled away. Faramir blocked him.

"You can't undo it," he said. Aragorn froze. Faramir faced him, looking hard into his eyes.

"Killing yourself will not bring back the men who died today. It will not change what you've done."

Aragorn looked stricken. He groped for the wall beside him, bracing himself against it. Faramir softened his voice.

"There is nothing more you can do here now. Go to the citadel, lord, and rest. The people will need your strength tomorrow."

"My strength . . ." Aragorn closed his eyes. His head rocked from side to side against the stone wall. "It is because of my _weakness _that they suffer now."

Faramir drew a breath, held it. He was not about to dispute that statement – _Imrahil, still no word, uncle, please be safe, be found, injured yes but alive, please, and Éowyn, Éowyn my love, my life, be well please I'm coming, I'm coming as soon as I can, be well please Eru hear me – _but neither could he bear to see anyone suffer the way Aragorn was suffering now.

"What's done is done," he said. "It is past. Let it go."

Aragorn lifted his head. His grey eyes met Faramir's, and in that moment it was as if he were bathed in a clear, pure light, strong and commanding as he had been on the day four years ago when he had come into the darkness and the horror of Faramir's mind after the pyre, and he had guided him home.

_My lord, you called me. I come._ Faramir tightened his lips to stop the words before he could say them aloud.

"And you, Faramir," Aragorn said. "Can you forgive me?"

Faramir swallowed. "Forgiveness comes with true repentance, and with time. But . . . you also were a victim of that madman, and I have seen how you have paid. When it is in my power to forgive, I will."

Aragorn smiled a little, though sorrow lingered in his eyes. "Thank you," he said. He turned away, and then paused. Looking back, he said, "You also should rest. You have done wonders this day, lord Steward."

"I gave up that title," Faramir said.

"You have reclaimed it," Aragorn said. "No man could lead the people as you have done today without having their loyalty, and their love. They deserve the finest Steward Gondor has ever known, a man worthy of the noble House of Anárion. You."

Faramir blinked, and felt his heart warm at the unaccustomed praise. Before he could speak Aragorn had bowed, and was gone.

Nearly an hour later, his duties finished at last, he finally made his own way through the courtyard to the citadel. The merchants and townspeople were clustered in groups, talking, or sitting before their tents on the soft grass. They all turned toward him as he passed, smiling at him, bowing, some speaking his name in tones of respect . . . and love. Nodding to them in return, he could not help replaying Aragorn's words in his mind.

It was absurd to think that he had any real place in history's annals. It was Boromir who was the true heir, the greater leader, as his father had never failed to remind him. Faramir had always known that, and felt it a cruel twist of fate that had deprived the people of their rightful Steward.

But . . . outnumbered and overwhelmed, as often seemed to be his fate in battle, he had not done so badly, had he? His men had rallied to him, and the contrast between them and the Corsairs when similarly outnumbered could not be more striking. Looking over the ruins of the city, he felt keenly his failure to protect her, but the people did not seem to see it that way. They did not hold him to blame for the enemy's duplicity.

Strange that he had never thought of it that way before.

He had never wanted to be a soldier. It was a duty thrust upon him by necessity, and he served to the best of his ability. There was no other choice. And if a part of him hated it, resented being coerced into a position he had never wanted and did not merit, then he concealed it well. And the people loved him.

They deserved better. _The people need you_, he had said to Aragorn. They needed a leader who could love the battlefield as well as the council chamber, because he knew that his people required his aid in both. They needed a ruler who could give himself to them whole-heartedly, submerging body, mind and spirit in their service without regret or resentment.

They needed their King.

_I am not a King_, he had said to Éowyn, and he had never wished to be one. But if he could believe Aragorn, then perhaps he did not need to be. He could serve as his heart longed to do, as scholar and advisor, as a man who could love his family equally to his people, as a man of peace.

Aragorn's words had kindled a light in his heart, tentative at first but growing stronger. Almost, almost he could believe that he could serve as himself, not as a reflection of Boromir, not as a surrogate for his father's greater son, but only as Faramir of Gondor . . . and for the first time in his life, it would be enough.

"My lord! My lord Faramir!" Faramir looked up. A page was running across the courtyard to him. He skidded to a halt, clutching a stitch in his side. "My lord – the Elves – send word –"

"What news?" Faramir said. As the page doubled over, hands on his knees, Faramir repressed a surge of impatience. "Catch your breath," he said as kindly as he could manage. "Tell me what's happened."

The boy straightened and pushed his hair back from his flushed face. "News from the Pelennor, my lord," he said. "The Elves have found Prince Imrahil's body."

Faramir stared at him. Darkness crept into the sides of his vision, and he sat down hard as the strength ran out of his legs. When he spoke his voice came as if from far away. "He is dead?"

"Aye, my lord." Belatedly Faramir saw the tear tracks through the grime on the boy's cheeks. "They're bringing him to the Rath Dínen now."

"Tell them to lay him in the House of the Stewards," Faramir whispered. "And . . . give them our thanks."

When the boy had gone he remained, staring blankly into the dark. Imrahil was gone. An image flared in his mind: his uncle's hands moving, forming graceful shapes as he spoke, playing with a slip of paper when he was thinking, folding it into a bird or a ship or a múmak to capture his young nephew's imagination. Whatever Imrahil did, whether he was troubled or at peace, his hands were always moving. To think of them now still, never to move again . . . it could not be. It could not. The world would be too cold, too empty a place without him to go on.

Gradualy Faramir became aware that he was sitting on something hard: a stone ledge was leeching the heat from him. He had collapsed onto the rock wall that surrounded the reflecting pool of the White Tree. The sapling's branches spread over him, glimmering silver in the night. He stared at them, and then slowly reached up a hand to touch a slender limb. It was cool, supple beneath his hand, and his fingers traced the delicate curve of a white blossom among the buds that swelled along its length.

The need that had been growing in him all day could not be denied any longer. It was an aching, burning hollow in his chest, and he rose, and strode swiftly into the citadel.

The marble staircases and corridors passed in a blur, his heels ringing echoes behind him as he hurried on. People turned to look as he passed, but they did not stop him and he paid them no heed. Then he was at the door, pushing past the guards and into the entranceway, and Ioreth was there bent over her bag.

She looked up as Faramir halted on the threshold, his heart pounding. "Oh, there you are," she said. She looked tired, but she smiled at him. "You can go in now. Everything is fine."

He was past her before she finished speaking, opening the door to the bedroom. There, upon the great bed in the glow of the lamplight, lay Éowyn. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back, her face was flushed and her eyes dull with exhaustion, but she lifted her head and smiled at him.

"You were victorious," she said. "I knew that you would come back to us."

"Always," Faramir said. He moved to her side and took her hand. He bent down to kiss her brow. "I will always come back to you, _lacha nîn_."1

She smiled at him, and then nodded to something at her side. Faramir looked down and saw a small bundle wrapped in linen at her side. A tuft of dark hair was just visible above the cloth.

"Is that –"

Éowyn's smile grew. "I thought we would call her Finduilas, after your mother."

"Finduilas," Faramir whispered. He reached down and pushed aside the fabric. His finger brushed a downy cheek, impossibly soft, and the tiny face turned toward him. Her skin was a splotchy red, her head strangely elongated. Her rosebud mouth moved soundlessly, and she squirmed as if wrestling within herself, opening unfocused eyes the color of the sea.

"She had a rough time there for a bit," Éowyn said. "Ioreth says that she'll look better soon."

"She's beautiful," Faramir breathed. "She's so beautiful." Forgetting his dirty, battle-worn clothes, he sank down on the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on the minute form beside them. Éowyn shifted over to make room, lifting Finduilas to her breast. Somehow Faramir found himself sitting propped against the headboard, Éowyn's head against his chest, his arms wrapped around her and their child.

He felt numb, dazed by the upheavals of this day. He had not yet come to terms with Imrahil's death, and now here was another shock, life in the midst of death, joy in the depths of grief. The world was spinning beneath his feet, and he clung to his small family as an anchor in the storm that threatened to drag him away.

The windows were open, the draperies stirring as the evening breeze swept over them and set the lamp flames dancing. On the cool air Faramir heard a music rising, many voices lifted in stirring melody.

Éowyn turned her head. "What is that?"

"The Elves are singing," Faramir said.

The song came from the depths of the Silent Street and lifted to the stars, clear and sweet and sad. Faramir caught only snatches of the words, but he knew that it was a warrior's song, a celebration of love and loss, of duty and battles won only to be fought again – a song of life in the face of Mordor, or under the Shadow of Dol Guldur. Of all the immortals in Middle-earth, only the Elves of Mirkwood could have composed that song, he thought, and of all the mortals perhaps only the Men of Gondor could truly understand.

They sang now for the Men who had died to defend their home this day, for the widows, for the orphans. They sang for Imrahil.

Listening, he felt the ache easing in his chest, the anger draining like a poison leeched from his veins. In its wake was true grief, pure and simple, filling him as water from a spring. He closed his eyes and bent his head over Éowyn's, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair. His arms were wrapped around her, cradling Finduilas, and he felt the baby's tiny fist close over his finger.

*~*~*

The Elven song rose from the Silent Street, where the Dome of the Stewards spilled light out from every door of window, and where a company of Wood-elves stood guard over the fallen Prince of Gondor. It was taken up by the army camped upon the Pelennor, ringing around their captives, and Corsairs huddled in their tents in superstitious dread. It swelled to the night sky, and the people of Minas Tirith looked around in wonder, and those who grieved felt their burden lessened.

The music entered the darkened royal chambers, where Aragorn knelt, half dozing from exhaustion, his arms still clasped around the waist of the Queen. Arwen heard it, and lifted her head, the stars reflected in the moisture of her eyes. She listened in silence, and slowly one pale hand moved to stroke the tangled locks of his hair.

All through the city the people came to their windows and doorways to listen. The pubs emptied as revelers came into the streets to stand in silence, mugs of ale still clutched in their hands. In the Houses of Healing they opened the casements so that the patients could hear.

High upon the courtyard wall of the Houses a lone figure sat with arms clasped around his knees, and did not move as the song washed over him. His hair shone in the pale moonlight, and his eyes were dark, fixed unblinkingly upon the scene framed within a lit window in the building's wall.

Legolas had not left the void behind, after all. He felt it vast and deep within him: the consuming emptiness burning hollow in his chest. He locked his gaze on the square of lamplight, upon the figure stretched on the bed within, on the slow rise and fall of Gimli's chest beneath the coverlet.

"Will you go to him?" The Elvenking had made no sound as he approached, walking soft-footed along the narrow wall. His deep voice was gentle, stirring vague memories of safety, security, and wellbeing. Legolas did not answer.

"I understand that he was injured while protecting you." Thranduil crouched down beside him on the wall. "I confess that I was not overjoyed with your choice of a Dwarf as boon companion, but he has proven himself of a noble heart. It was a deed well done."

He should rise, bow: make some acknowledgement of his King's presence. His limbs felt too heavy to move.

"I am grateful that you had such friends with you," Thranduil said. "I came as swiftly as I could, but I feared that I was too late." He fell silent, and together they watched Gimli breathe for a time, while the song rose around them.

"I was too late," Thranduil said. Legolas felt his father's gaze upon him. He kept his eyes fixed on his friend. His own breaths came in time with Gimli's, slowly in and out.

"Even now you are closed to me," Thranduil murmured. "We tried to reach you, your brothers and I, after we felt your cry. But you were gone from us."

He drew a shaky breath. When he continued his voice was steady. "It severed all the bonds, what was done to you. We thought that you were dead."

_Not all the bonds,_ Legolas thought. _Not entirely._ Certainly he had believed they were broken, shattered that night in Dragaer's cabin. But Gimli had found a way. He had kicked down the doors and stomped over every obstacle and forced the broken threads together, and had dragged him back again. Legolas had not thought it possible, would not have believed it had someone else told him of it. And how he felt toward his friend as a result, conflicting hurt and rage and pain and love, he might never sort out. He certainly would not tell Gimli of it.

In any case it did not matter now. What remnants or links there had been were gone now, utterly destroyed by his passage through the barrier.

"There are very few acts which can break an Elven bond," Thranduil said, his voice flat with the effort of control. "What happened . . . it was the _delgurth_?"2

Legolas stiffened. "He is dead," he said. "I lived to see him dead."

"Good," Thranduil said. He sighed. "Meanwhile my vengeance is yet to be paid. This pirate scum will not even fight unless they outnumber their opponents three to one . . ."

"Kill them all," Legolas said. "I care not."

Silence, and a hissing, indrawn breath from his father. "My son," Thanduil said. "Little leaf, what have they done to you?"

He reached to stroke Legolas' hair. Legolas flinched away.

Thranduil stopped, and his hand fell back to his side. "There is healing in Aman, they say. Círdan will prepare a ship. You can sail before the next moon."3 He spoke as a King accustomed to command, but Legolas heard the tremor in his voice. "You will not fade."

Legolas kept his eyes on Gimli. _Breathe in. Breathe out._ "Is that an order, my lord?"

A pause, then: "Does it need to be?"

"That is for you to decide," Legolas said. "But I have never before disobeyed the command of my King. I would prefer not to begin now."

He rose fluidly to his feet and bowed. "By your leave, Father. He needs me now."

Legolas dropped to the grass below the wall and walked away.

* * *

1 _lacha nîn:_ my flame. A pet name.

2 _Delgurth: _horror-death. A euphemism for rape.

3 Aman: the Undying Lands, home of the Valar.


	41. To Repent

"What else is there to do?"

– William Golding, _The_ _Lord of the Flies_

Chapter 40: To Repent

Arwen was trying to remember when things had become so confused.

She had wanted so badly to believe that it was not too late, that Aragorn could be saved. It had nearly killed her to accept, finally, that he was gone. Despite her words to Faramir and Éowyn, she had not truly believed it until Legolas had returned to them and she had seen his injuries. And for all the horror of that moment, there had also been relief in having some certainty at last: in knowing the steps that she had to take to protect herself and her son.

But that certainty was a fleeting thing. The cracks had begun to open even before the trial . . . when Aragorn had returned alone to Minas Tirith, perhaps. Or before that, when the Council had agreed to everything she asked, rendering Elessar powerless and swearing allegiance to her . . . and that night she had locked herself in her rooms and cried herself to sleep.

It would be so much easier if she could hate him. Part of her did hate him, but the greater part still loved him, and her stomach cramped with the confusion of emotion. It hurt. Every time she looked at him, every time she thought about what he had done, or not done, it hurt more. Everything about this horrid, poisonous situation just hurt so much.

So she sat in the dark and watched the stars through her window, while Aragorn knelt beside her, his head bowed against her knee. He had exhausted his tears in the agony of remorse and fallen into a semi-doze at her feet. Her hand was still resting on his hair, soothing the tangled locks.

How she wished that she could only hate him.

A sharp, fluttering sensation made her sit up straight, her hand pressed to her side. Aragorn lifted his head, looking at her questioningly. Forgetting to be reticent, forgetting everything in the rush of her excitement, Arwen caught his hand and held it against her belly.

He looked puzzled . . . and then his eyes widened as he felt it too.

"Is that . . .?"

"I think so," Arwen said. "I've never felt it before, but I think that is the baby kicking."

Aragorn pulled himself up to sit on the bed beside her, his hand still on her belly. "Our baby . . ." His eyes were shining. "We'll announce it in the morning, do you think? The Council already knows, of course, but it will give the people something to celebrate. It's just what they need, to know that line of succession is secure, that the future is assured . . ."

He saw the look on her face. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just . . . I forgot. I'm sorry. I will go, if you wish."

Arwen shook her head. Everything was so confused; she did not know what she wanted any longer. But at this moment his hand was warm and gentle as he touched her, and she did not want him to leave.

"Later we can tell them," she said. "Now . . . this is our child. Let him be just ours tonight. Please?"

"Of course," he said. "You are right. Our son." He bent down and kissed the swell of her stomach, obvious now without her concealing cloak.

"Kicking already," he said. "He'll be at the top of his age mates, I know it. We'll teach him his letters and arithmetic, and Faramir can tutor him in Gondor's history, and Éowyn will teach him to ride, and I'll train him in the sword –"

His enthusiasm was infectious, as pure and unaffected as a child's. But his words stirred memories . . . of Faramir in a dungeon cell, of Éowyn's tears, of Legolas cold upon a makeshift carrier . . . images that twisted like a knife in her gut.

"And will Gimli drill him in geometry and architecture?" she said. "Will Legolas teach him the bow?"

Aragorn fell silent, the blood draining from his face.

Arwen looked away. "The succession is assured, you said. And the kingdom is secure. Is it? Are the people safe? Are any of us safe?"

There was a pause before Aragorn answered. She heard him draw breath as if to steady himself. "Yes," he said. "Yes, _Tinúviel_, yes of course. I swear . . . I know that my promises mean little now, but I swear upon my soul that no enemy will harm us again. I will not permit it."

"Upon your soul," she repeated softly. "Such a poor ragged thing it is now, to have such oaths sworn upon it."

He made to speak, but she touched his lips, silencing him. "I know you mean it," she said. "I only wish that I could believe you."

He took her hand, drawing her fingers away from his face and closing them within his own. "Everything that I am, or ever shall be, is yours," he said. "With every fiber of my strength I will protect you and our people. I will guard our son."

She regarded him steadily. "And if it is you yourself who endangers us?"

Aragorn seemed to shrink within himself, his eyes lowered and his mouth drew down. When next he spoke his voice was a bare whisper, audible only to her ears. "Then I will go now. If you believe that of me . . . I will go into the Wild. You need not see me again." He pulled away and stood, swaying.

"Only . . ." he looked back at her, and the pain in his eyes could drown the world. "Only I ask . . . when he is born, might I see him? For a little while?"

The barrier within her broke. Arwen drew a shuddering breath, half laughing as the tears stung her eyes.

"You daft fool," she said. She pulled him down to sit on the bed again, and crossed the room to take the washing bowl from its stand by the wardrobe. "You benighted idiot." She squeezed the water from a cloth and began to wipe the dried blood from his face.

"If I knew that was best for him then I would do it," she said. "I'd send you away – Valar, I would, if I knew that it would keep him safe, if I knew that it was worth seeing my son grow up without his father . . ."

Tears blurred her vision, spilled down her cheeks. "But I do not know. And I cannot . . . Elbereth, I do not want . . . I cannot bear to lose you again."

She drew the cloth in a swift, angry swipe over the cut on his cheek, and he hissed and pulled away. She dropped it in the bowl and covered her face with her hands. "I'm sorry," she said.

Her shoulders were shaking. After a moment she felt him touch her, hesitant, and then slowly his arms drew around her, pulled her close. She leaned against his chest, breathing in the musk of his sweat and the dirt on his clothes. She should not do this, a part of her mind was shouting that she should pull away, leave him before he could hurt her again . . .

"It's all right," he murmured. "It will be all right."

She should laugh at the folly of that statement, because she knew that _nothing _was right, nothing would ever be right again . . . but he was holding her, and she did not want to move. She had been strong for so long, she had stood alone and taken the blows that fate had given her, and she had betrayed no sign of weakness, no hint of the weariness and pain that dragged at her.

Just this once, it was good to lean against someone else, to feel his strength. It was such a luxury, this moment to be weak.

"What if something goes wrong?" she whispered.

Aragorn drew back a little, ducking his head to look at her. "What was that?"

She faced him, knew that he saw her tears. She did not care. "What if there is a problem with the birth? What if he – he is laid wrong, or I cannot deliver him, or –"

Aragorn pulled her close again, his hand stroking her hair. "Nothing will go wrong," he said. "I will be with you, my love, along with every midwife in Gondor if need be. You are so strong. Our baby will be strong too."

"But I am mortal now," Arwen said against his shirt. "Éowyn was in so much pain . . ."

"That is the nature of childbirth, or so I am told," Aragorn said. "Would to Eru that I could bear it for you. But it will pass."

"It is not the nature of Elven birth," Arwen said. She sat up. "It is not natural for the child to be delayed, or to come backward, or for his head to be swollen or to have the cord wrapped about his neck or –"

"Arwen," he interrupted. He cupped her jaw, looked into her eyes. "What is wrong?"

The gentle concern in his voice crumbled her defenses. "I am afraid," she confessed. "I was alone for so long, and I have not done this before, and after Éowyn . . ."

"I know," he said. His thumb wiped the moisture from her cheek. "I am frightened too. But I also know your strength, as great as any ever known to Elven or mortal kind. If you permit me, I will stay with you. I will help you. Everything will be fine."

She met his eyes, clear grey and shining with devotion as he looked at her. She reached up and stroked a lock of hair back from his face.

"You really believe that, don't you," she said.

He smiled, and leaned to whisper in her ear. "Every word," he said. "Our son will be strong and healthy, and I can only pray that he takes after you in everything that he does."

She laughed at that, the first time she had truly laughed in what felt like an age. She laughed because she knew he spoke the truth, and because she wanted to believe it too. She wanted to believe in him.

"You are a fool," she said, and hugged him.

He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her hair. "I know," he said.

*~*~*

Aragorn lay awake for what felt like hours after Arwen's breathing had slowed and her eyes glazed over in sleep. Partly this was because his position, lying half-propped against the headboard with Arwen's head against his chest, made it difficult to rest. Partly it was because his mind was still buzzing with the events of the past 24 hours. But mostly it was because for the first time in months he was holding his wife in his arms, and she was curled warm against him, her breath soft and her muscles slack with sleep, and he did not want to miss a moment of it.

How could he have forgotten how good this felt? How could he have allowed himself to doubt her even for an instant?

She was going to bear his child. He could barely grasp the enormity of that fact. _His son._ The sheer astonishment of it paralyzed him with mingled happiness and fear.

He had told Arwen that he was afraid. The truth was that he was absolutely terrified.

In less than a year's time he would hold his son in his arms. The thought kindled in him such intense, all-consuming joy that it frightened him. He did not deserve such happiness. Of all people, he was the last to merit this gift, and yet Eru had blessed him anyway.

It could not be. After all that he had done, justice could not permit it. Arwen would surely change her mind and send him away, or the Council would exile him for his crimes, or Thranduil extract vengeance for his son . . . or Arwen and the child might not survive the birth.

He repressed a shudder, feeling his skin go cold at the thought. Was that it? Arwen had some measure of foresight – was her fear a warning? Did she know that Aragorn was destined to lose her in punishment for his sins?

He should go now. Leave before they could be taken from him, before his weakness could hurt them any more.

But his legs would not move. He was fixed in place, holding his wife tightly to his breast, and he could no more leave her now than he could stop his lungs from needing air. The Council would have to execute him, he thought dully, for he could not live without her.

Was this then the nature of his weakness? That he loved too much?

Faramir had said that he could not undo what he had done, that no penance could earn him forgiveness. If that were true then what hope did he have?

A soft tapping called him to attention. His first thought was that someone was knocking on the outer chamber door, but then he realized the sound was closer than that. He carefully eased himself from underneath Arwen and lowered her gently to the pillows. Then he crossed to the balcony door and opened it.

Legolas stood outside. He must have heard Aragorn's footsteps, for he had already retreated to the balcony railing. He stood with one hand grasping it, his body curved away from Aragorn.

"Gimli needs you," he said.

Aragorn blinked. "Legolas, what –"

"The healers have done their work. You must come now."

"I – all right," Aragorn said. "All right, I'm coming."

Before he could say another word Legolas vaulted over the railing and dropped into the darkness. Aragorn's heart stopped. He ran to the balcony's edge. It was a three-storey fall to the ground and even an Elf –

Craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of a figure clinging to the moon-washed stone of the citadel wall. Even as he watched, Legolas gained the railing of a second-floor balcony. He ran along its curve and vanished into the shadows.

Aragorn released a long breath. Moving more sedately, he retreated into his room and fastened the balcony door. He left the windows open, knowing how Arwen liked the feel of the night breeze while she slept.

It took some rummaging in the trunk next to the wardrobe to find the supplies he needed, and he was hampered by the effort to be quiet as well as quick. Tucking the pouch into his belt, he crept to the bed and brushed his hand over Arwen's hair. He bent swiftly to kiss her temple. Then he gathered up his boots and left, closing the door silently behind him.

He met no one during the journey down to the Houses. The city slumbered beneath a canopy of stars, and the lower levels that hours before had been consumed by battle were now peaceful. Even the lingering smell of smoke was dissipating, swept away by the freshening wind from the south.

Legolas was waiting for him at the Houses, pacing the short length of Gimli's room. A bowl of water steamed in readiness on the stand by the bed.

Legolas drew back as Aragorn entered, moving to stand next to the open window at the far wall. He showed no inclination to speak, so Aragorn let him be for the moment and went to examine his patient.

Gimli lay unmoving, his upper chest and neck swathed in a white bandage. His face was sallow in the lamplight and his closed eyes were sunken, their lids bruised. He seemed somehow diminished. Aragorn had never before thought of any Dwarf as being small, but Gimli looked shrunken, drawn in upon himself. His great barrel chest was scarcely a mound beneath the quilts, and his feet were a good eighteen inches short of the end of the bed.

His breath was uneven, faint, and would stop for long seconds at a time before starting again with a hitching rasp. There was a parchment-like quality to the skin about his eyes, and when Aragorn touched his hand he found it cold.

Aragorn swallowed. _No wonder Legolas was frightened_. Aloud he said, "I know it looks bad. Gimli's body is concentrating its resources on his injury. It's similar to Elven healing sleep, but he doesn't have the same level of control. When he is well enough he will wake up."

"And if he does not have the resources to recover, he might not wake up at all," Legolas said.

Reluctantly Aragorn nodded.

Legolas' arms were folded, his hands tucked in, holding himself tight. "Heal him."

Aragorn sighed. "You must understand that Gimli has suffered a massive trauma," he said. "He has lost a great deal of blood. He may not –"

"_Heal him._" Legolas' face was turned away, not looking at him. "I will do whatever you ask. Make him well."

"Legolas . . ." Aragorn gave up. "I'll try."

Taking the dried athelas leaves from his pouch, he scattered them over the surface of the hot water. He seated himself on the edge of Gimli's bed, his hands clasped over the Dwarf's.

The scent of athelas was like a dawn breeze, lifting and scattering the fog of weariness, the pain, uncertainty and fear of the past day. Slowly he came to focus, concentrating his thoughts, reaching deep within himself. He visualized a core of energy at his center, glowing light and strength.

There was no weakness now. Whatever his flaws, whatever his personal sins, here there was no room for doubt. He shut out the worry that nagged at the back of his mind, the fear of what would happen if he failed: the consequences for Gimli . . . for Legolas. He was needed now as a healer, as a friend, and as a King. There was nothing else.

As his concentration became absolute the image of light within him intensified, filling him with warmth. At the same time he became aware of darkness at the edge of his awareness: Gimli's wound was like a black pit leeching the Dwarf's life force, draining his strength.

Aragorn moved his hand to rest over Gimli's chest. This was not the mere absence of light. It was darkness made physical, consuming life and ravenous in its hunger. He breathed in, conscious of his lungs' expansion, the scent of athelas energizing him. As he breathed out he visualized light flowing from his core, through his arm and into the aching void of Gimli's pain.

There was no question of calling Gimli to him as he once had done for Faramir. The Dwarf was deep in his own battle, not withdrawn but fighting hard. An image flashed through Aragorn's mind: Gimli in full armor, spattered with the blood of his foes, his battleaxe cutting shining swaths through the dark. He would return victorious or not at all. What he needed now was not direction, but strength.

Aragorn gave it to him. He poured out his power, his health and his will: energy like a molten river flowing out of him and cascading into the darkness. He pictured the wound healing, torn muscle fibers knitting back together, chipped bone smoothing, blood vessels and ligaments made whole again. He willed it to be so.

The effort drained him far sooner than it should have done. He had taxed himself to the limit in tending the city's wounded earlier that day, and the athelas gave but a temporary respite, allowing him to draw on energy reserves he could ill afford to spare.

The light within him was failing, growing dim. His hand upon Gimli's chest was numb, his fingers chilled. Still he forced himself on, his breath ragged, his heart booming irregularly in his ears. The energy flow slowed to a trickle, a thread of liquid silver in the black.

And the darkness was creeping into him in return, pressing upon the faint spark at his core and dragging him down with ever-present, all-consuming need. It filled him, blocking his throat and obscuring his vision, and his heart beat like the frantic, futile struggle of a trapped bird. The world was fading, falling . . . going black.

*~*~*

"Aragorn. Aragorn!" Someone was calling his name. He wished that they wouldn't. He was so tired. He needed to rest.

"_Estel!_" There was real fear in the voice now. Someone was shaking his shoulder.

Aragorn opened his eyes. He was sprawled face down on something soft. His mouth was dry and his skin felt hot, itchy with weariness. His eyes were burning as though he had not slept in days.

He pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face, and discovered that he had collapsed across Gimli's bed. His right hand had slipped off Gimli's chest as he fell. His fingers felt stiff, aching deep in his bones. He massaged them with his left hand as he examined the Dwarf.

Gimli was breathing easily, his chest rising and falling steadily. His eyes were still closed, but they had lost that sunken look. The color had returned to his face. He might be only sleeping.

"You were successful." Legolas had retreated to stand a distance behind him. Aragorn wondered if he had dreamed the Elf calling him.

He nodded. "It looks that way. He's going to be fine."

He watched Gimli for a moment longer, relishing the sight. He felt slightly disconnected from himself, fey with happiness and exhaustion. It would be some time before he recovered from the healing trance – the effects always took a few minutes to dissipate. His senses were altered: sounds and scents seemed more intense while his vision was blurred, inner perception superimposed like an afterimage over the real people around him.

He could see Gimli, still pale but obviously well on the road to recovery. And he could also see the light within Gimli, his vitality shining like a beacon beneath his skin.

Aragorn turned toward Legolas, wanting to share the moment of triumph. On catching sight of the Elf however he froze, and felt the smile die upon his lips.

Legolas was dark. The spirit of the Eldar, which shone so strongly that its light was visible even to mortal eyes, was in him all but quenched. To Aragorn's heightened senses it seemed as if he were cloaked in a physical shadow: a crushing darkness like that of Gimli's injury made a thousand times worse.

_This is death,_ Aragorn thought, horror-struck. This was death without hope for peace or re-birth, beyond reach of Mandos or even the promise of Ilúvatar. Legolas was not dying: he was already dead. It was just that with typical stubbornness the Elf had not yet admitted it.

Or perhaps he had.

Aragorn reached for him without thinking, the instinctive gesture of a healer, of a friend – and Legolas flinched away. And then he stopped.

He stood still, his eyes closed as if he were gathering himself. The effects of the trance were fading now, and Aragorn saw him standing there in the glow of the lamplight, looking much as he had always done. His wrists were still bandaged, his face was drawn and his features seemed more sharply defined, perhaps, but the terrifying shadow was gone. Almost Aragorn could pretend that he had not seen it, that it had been some trick of the light and his own exhaustion and guilt that conjured the specter in his mind.

Then Legolas opened his eyes.

The shadow was visible there: fathoms deep and dark. Looking into his eyes was like seeing the ocean under a midnight rain.

_He might open himself to every agony in the world_, Aragorn thought, _every one like a million droplets falling, and it could not increase his pain_. The pupils were dilated, black tunnels filling the iris, dragging him inexorably into the darkness within. Aragorn dropped his eyes, unable to endure that terrible gaze.

"What would you have me do?" Legolas said.

"What?" Aragorn said. He was distracted, shaken by what he had seen. _How can I help him? _he thought. _Dear Eru, how do I even begin?_

"You healed him," Legolas said. "Whatever you ask of me I will do."

Aragorn looked up. Legolas was unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled the fabric back, allowing it to hang loosely from his shoulders. He stood with his hands at his sides, his head slightly tilted to expose the pale skin of his neck and chest. The bruises at his throat were blurred by the golden lamplight.

Aragorn stared. "What are you doing?"

"Paying a price." Legolas spread his hands, looking at him with those dead eyes. "This is what you wished, is it not? That I serve you."

"No!" Aragorn said. "No, Legolas – there is no price! Gimli is my friend too."

"I will not resist," Legolas continued as if he had not heard. "There will be no need to restrain me, unless you desire it."

"Stop! Stop it, I don't –"

"You commanded my allegiance," Legolas said. "It is yours. The Elvenking has no need of me any longer." Slowly he knelt on the stone floor and bowed his head. "I swear myself to you, my King. My master."

"Don't call me that!" Aragorn shouted. "Eru, Legolas, never say that! Not ever!"

He grabbed the Elf's arms and pulled him to his feet. A shudder ran through Legolas at the contact, but he did not resist.

"You are a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen," Aragorn said, staring into his eyes, searching for some spark in their depths. "You serve no Man."

Legolas showed no reaction. Aragorn swore, shaking him so that his unbound hair tumbled over his shoulders. "Fight me, damn it! No Man can lay hands on you. Make me pay for what I've done! Demand retribution; curse me, give me penance – Legolas, _please._"

Legolas straightened. With seemingly effortless strength he shrugged free of Aragorn's grasp, but he did not move away. "Is that your command, my lord?" he said. "Do you desire me to punish you?"

Aragorn recoiled, his gorge rising. "_What?_ You do not mean . . . you cannot . . ." he backed away, feeling himself shaking. Legolas only looked at him, his face expressionless. For all the vulnerability of his position, standing unarmed and with his shirt slid halfway down his arms, he seemed strangely unmoved.

_Like a mask_, Aragorn thought. _As if his whole body were to be used and discarded with as little care as a performer's mask in a play. As if it no longer matters, as if his faer is already gone._

"I cannot do this," he said. "There is no atonement for me . . . I cannot. I'm sorry. Eru, Legolas, I'm so sorry."

Leaving the Elf standing by Gimli's side, he fled.


	42. A Father's Love

**A/N: **The first part of this chapter completes a series of flashbacks to an adventure set early in Aragorn and Legolas' friendship. It's been awhile since the last flashback, so to refresh your memory: Immediately after Aragorn learned his true name and heritage he came to Mirkwood, where he and Legolas set out to scout the southern forest near Dol Guldur. They were attacked by a party of Orcs and Legolas was wounded. Aragorn saved his life. This was his first use of athelas and marked his acceptance of his ancestry and his destiny.

This chapter is dedicated to Jasta Elf and all the other loyal defenders of the Wood-elf King.

"A mighty judgment's coming."

– Leonard Cohen

Chapter 41: A Father's Love

_The south of Mirkwood, 2951_

They had bound Legolas' abdomen with strips torn from Aragorn's cloak. Scarcely had they finished when Legolas insisted that they move on, staggering to his feet over Aragorn's protests. Orcs would be drawn to the scent of his blood, he said. And he was right. They had not traveled a day, Aragorn half-helping, half-carrying the Elf, when the next band attacked.

But by then Thranduil's patrols had found them.

The rest of the journey was a blur in Aragorn's memory: vague recollections of grim faced warriors who surrounded him and their Prince and bore them swiftly back to the stronghold. The long ride on horseback must have been painful to Legolas, but he made no complaint.

Aragorn insisted on attending to his friend, though he could do little more than help to change his dressings each night. Legolas gripped his hand convulsively when they peeled away the blood-soaked cloth, but despite the rigors of travel he was healing well.

They were still half a day from the stronghold when the Elvenking's guards came out to meet them. This deep within Thranduil's realm the forest was peaceful, the trees healthy and tall without the oppressive air to the south. Birds sang overhead, and the strong branches overhead were interlaced with flets. A few cottages were scattered amongst the trees, but even in the face of the Shadow most Wood-elves preferred to sleep in the open air.

The great doors of the palace swung open as they approached the hill that was the Elves' refuge against the Enemy. Legolas' horse knelt down to allow him to dismount. He did so with deliberate care, but shrugged off all attempts to aid him.

Aragorn stayed close by Legolas' side as they made their way through the labyrinthine passages that wound deep within the hillside. The Elves in the corridors stepped aside respectfully as Legolas passed, though their eyes lingered on Aragorn with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He could hear a murmur of voices behind them: their honor guard was clearly of the opinion that Legolas should go straight to the healing chambers, and Aragorn agreed with them. But Legolas never wavered.

The massive, intricately carved oak doors of the Elvenking's throne room opened silently before them. Legolas entered without hesitation, Aragorn following more cautiously behind him.

"Legolas!" The page never had a chance to announce them. Thranduil strode forward to greet his son, the assembled Elves drawing hurriedly back to grant him passage. But the King drew up short as Legolas stopped in the center of the hall. Slowly and with obvious care Legolas knelt and bowed his head.

"Sire," he said, keeping his eyes downcast, "I have grave news."

Thranduil made an impatient sound. He was a tall, powerfully built Elf, broader through the shoulders than Legolas but with the same chiseled jaw and piercing eyes. His hair was a richer, truer gold than his son's pale blond but was drawn back in the same warrior's braids beneath a woven crown of autumn leaves.

"My son," he said gently. "You are hurt. Permit the healers to attend to you and I will hear your news when you have rested."

Legolas shook his head. Aragorn recognized the stubborn set to his jaw. "My lord, this is of greater import than the welfare of one Elf, be he your son or no. I beg you to hear me now."

For a moment Thranduil looked as if he would match his son's stubbornness, and then he sighed. "Very well. If this is required to make you pay heed to your own health, so be it." He returned to the throne and sat, looking down at Legolas with mingled pride and exasperation. "Rise, Prince Legolas, and report."

Legolas got carefully to his feet and stood, swaying. Aragorn took a few unobtrusive steps forward, ready to catch him if he fell.

"The Enemy has breached our southern border," Legolas said. A low murmur rose from the watching Elves. Legolas ignored them. "Black squirrels and spiders are multiplying within range of our current patrols. The Shadow has deepened over the southward realm, and the water there has become foul. The trees are growing weaker, and their song is discordant. The forest is dying."

Thranduil closed his eyes briefly. "All of this is known to us," he said. "Such news does not warrant this delay, my son."

"There is more," Legolas said. He glanced at Aragorn. "Bands of Orcs have encroached upon our borders as well. We encountered one not seventy miles from the stronghold itself!"

The murmur was louder now. Thranduil leaned forward, looking intently from Legolas to Aragorn. "That is outside the range of our patrols, Lord Legolas," he said in an even tone. "Do you mean to say that you and this Man journeyed so far alone?"

Legolas met his father's gaze unflinchingly. "I do, Your Majesty," he said quietly. "And in doing so I have learned what we might otherwise have not known until it was too late. Something has re-occupied Dol Guldur. What we thought was merely the sickness left by the Shadow is in reality the first foray of the Enemy's war against us. We must strike back, with all our forces, before it is too late."

Thranduil drew a slow breath. "So it has come," he murmured. Turning to a page he ordered, "I want Lord Sídhan and every captain within summoning distance inside my office in one hour. Send runners immediately. And," he grimaced briefly, "send word to Dáin of Erebor. We may have need of his ironwork again."

"At once, Your Majesty," the Elf replied. He bowed and hurried out.

Aragorn recognized the name of Legolas' oldest living brother, the head of Mirkwood's army. So the King was taking Legolas' allegations to heart. He breathed a silent sigh of relief.

He tensed again immediately, however, when Thranduil next spoke. "The question remains: how is it that you ventured so far south alone? That was a rash decision unworthy of a novice warrior. I expect better of my captains, Legolas."

Legolas bowed his head. "I know, my lord," he said. "I accept responsibility for my actions."

"But it wasn't his fault!" Aragorn burst out.

Every Elf in the room turned to look at him, and he felt himself blush crimson under their gaze. But he lifted his chin and continued doggedly. "I insisted on going south, King Thranduil. It was my choice. Legolas went with me to protect me."

"I see." Thranduil leveled a long stare at him. Aragorn swallowed hard, his heart thudding loud in his ears. "I realize that you were raised in a valley sheltered from the evils of Middle-earth. But I had thought that you had traveled enough to learn a modicum of sense, Estel of Rivendell. It seems that I was mistaken."

"My name is Aragorn!" Aragorn heard the words before he realized that he had spoken. The hall fell silent. Legolas looked at him in astonishment. But Thranduil pierced him with narrowed eyes, so that Aragorn felt as if the King were looking straight through him.

He took a pace forward, holding the Elvenking's gaze. It was the hardest thing that he had ever done. He licked his lips tremulously. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Elendil," he heard himself say. There was a soft intake of breath from the listening Elves. "I chose to go south, and Legolas went with me. I won't have anyone blame him for my mistake."

Thranduil's glare held Aragorn captive – he could not have looked away if he tried. When finally the King broke eye contact Aragorn sagged in relief. He was shaking.

As the silence stretched on Aragorn wished fervently that he could take back his words. Admitting his newfound lineage to Legolas was one thing. Claiming it in front of Thranduil and the assembled leaders of Mirkwood was another. Every one of these Elves had lost friends or family members at Dagorlad. For all he knew they had personally witnessed Isildur's betrayal.

He risked a glance at Thranduil. The Elvenking's face was set as though carved from stone, but his eyes smoldered with some strong emotion. _Oh Eru,_ Aragorn thought numbly. _I'm going to die._

Thranduil looked at Legolas. "He told you this?"

Legolas nodded. He was very pale. "He learned the truth before he came here, my lord. I saw no reason to feign ignorance any longer."

"So you accept your heritage, son of Arathorn," Thranduil said. He drew a deep breath. "You would even boast of it here in my halls. And true to your family's history you have somehow coerced my son to abandon centuries of training and follow you into the Enemy's waiting arms, where you have caused him grievous harm."

"That is not true!" Legolas' hands clenched as he stepped forward between Thranduil and Aragorn.

Thranduil stood abruptly. Aragorn glimpsed pure fury in his eyes, so burning hot that he felt he should have been seared to ash by the Elvenking's gaze alone.

"Do you deny that you followed him?" Thranduil thundered. "Do you deny that he led you into the Orcs' path?"

Legolas lifted his chin, meeting his father's eyes. "The Orcs would have found us anyway, my lord. They were on a direct course for Eryn Galen. And yes, I followed Aragorn. He would have died if I had not."

"But it is you who are hurt, my son! I felt it – Elbereth, all these days I have felt it, and could do nothing . . ." Thranduil turned away, clearly fighting for control.

"He saved my life!" Legolas drew breath. "Father, you know that I would never seek to cause you pain. But Aragorn is heir to a greater destiny than I. I deemed it my place to go with him, and to aid him if I could."

"You deemed it your place?" Thranduil snorted. "Shall I then see my son in servitude to the heir of Isildur, the heir of mortal treachery and greed?"

Legolas' eyes flashed with the first real fire that Aragorn had seen since the attack. "I serve you, my King. But I stand with Aragorn. There is strength in him greater than in all his fathers, and I could ask no greater honor than to call him friend."

He straightened painfully, looking around the great chamber. "Hear me, all of you! Estel of Rivendell you have known. Now I name Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Elendil, Elf-friend. Are there any here who would challenge me?"

There was a ringing silence. Legolas looked around again, finally meeting his father's stormy gaze. "It seems not," he said at last. "Then by your leave, my lord…"

With slow grace he collapsed. Aragorn sprang forward as Legolas' legs crumpled beneath him. He caught the Elf, awkwardly supporting him as Legolas' head lolled against his shoulder.

A moment later Thranduil was at his side, pulling Legolas into his arms. Then he looked at Aragorn. His gaze was still dark with anger, but there was something else there, Aragorn thought. He saw a grudging respect in the Elvenking's eyes.

"You know your history, and Legolas said that you saved his life."

Aragorn nodded warily. Thranduil sighed. "Come then." He stood, cradling Legolas easily. "You may yet earn the honor he has given you . . . _elvellon_."1

*~*~*

_Minas Tirith, seventy years later_

Stumbling in the dark, half-blinded by tears, Aragorn ran. His breath was tearing in his chest, the night air searing his lungs. A single word hammered in his brain: _elvellon. Elvellon. Elf-friend. Friend._

His shoulder slammed into something hard, and he staggered. A stone archway bulked over him: the entrance to the south gardens of the Houses of Healing. The quiet interior beckoned to him as a haven, promising peace to his tormented mind. Unthinkingly he answered, his feet crunching on the gravel path as he passed through the gate. Trees of oak and ash towered overhead, their branches stretched black against the sky. Grass rippled silver beneath the gibbous moon, and the air carried the heady fragrance of lilac.

_Elvellon_. He choked back a sob, his hands clenching into fists, rough-bitten nails digging into his skin. Legolas had called him that; had named him friend before the entire court of Mirkwood. He had believed in him, defended him, and ordered them to accept him despite the sins of his ancestors.

Aragorn pivoted and punched his fist into the bole of a large ash tree. "_Idiot_," he snarled. Pain exploded across his knuckles and he swore. "You stupid, idiotic, imbecilic _fool._ Why didn't you leave? You _knew _that you were weak, you knew the danger, and you just stood there and let him . . ."

He kicked the base of the tree and slammed his other fist against it. Bark scraped his hands, flaked away as he pummeled it. "You fool. You stupid, _stupid _man." Tears overflowed his eyes, ran hot down his cheeks. His hands were abraded, stinging.

His strength gave way and he fell, catching himself against the tree's trunk before slumping to the ground. He was weak, feverish and trembling. He closed his eyes and saw Legolas standing before him, pulling open his shirt in offering.

"Eru damn you to the Void!" Aragorn clutched his head, rocking forward and back.

He had done that to him. Legolas had trusted him, had kept faith in him when no one else would, when even Arwen had turned away . . . and Aragorn had betrayed him. He had hurt him so deeply . . . Elbereth, what must it have cost Legolas to offer himself up like that?

_Nothing_, he thought. _It cost him nothing. One cannot give what has already been taken._

His stomach cramped violently and he doubled over in pain. Bile scalded his throat, bitter on his tongue. He retched and spat and then rolled away, curled in upon himself, his face pressed to the cool grass.

_I warned Arwen, I told her to take the ship. I tried to protect her. But Legolas . . . Dear Eru, why did I not think? How could I not see the danger?_

_Elvellon._ _My friend. Oh Ilúvatar and Manwë above, what have I done?_

He lay there for a long time, wretched and shivering. The intense physical and mental effort of healing Gimli had cost him dearly. Coupled with the emotional strain of the past few hours it was almost more than he could bear. He was exhausted, drained beyond the limits of endurance. Pillowed upon the soft earth, lulled by the gentle rustle of tree branches in the breeze, he finally fell into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke with a start, feeling someone watching him. He opened his eyes to an up-close view of a beetle crawling through a forest of grass stems. Groggily he pushed himself up on one elbow, trying to get his bearings.

The morning sun stretched the shadows of the trees and garden wall long over the grass. A mist was rising from the damp earth, and the tattered clouds bore the last hints of pink from a fading sunrise. The grass was flattened in a hollow where he had lain, and he was covered in a rich green cloak that was not his.

It was Elven-cloth, light and warm and shimmering as though water had been somehow woven into the fabric itself. Aragorn ran his hand slowly over it and then looked up.

"Thank you," he said to the seemingly empty garden.

"You are welcome," Thranduil replied. The Elvenking dropped from the branches of the ash tree to land beside him. He took the cloak that Aragorn held out and folded it over his arm.

"It is a poor thing for a King to sleep uncovered on the ground," he said.

"Perhaps so," Aragorn said. "I did not much feel like a King last night." He ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging bits of grass and leaves.

"But you are one, whether you feel it or no. Your people must see you act accordingly."

Aragorn did not answer for a moment. He thought of his people, who had followed their King into war. He thought of Faramir, of Imrahil . . . and of Legolas.

He shuddered. "Perhaps it would be best for them to see me as I am," he said. "I am not worthy of their allegiance."

"None of us are," Thranduil said. "But they require us to serve nonetheless."

Aragorn hesitated. "My lord," he said. "About Legolas . . ."

Thranduil looked at him, waited. Aragorn swallowed. His throat clicked. "I need to tell you what happened."

"I know what happened to my son," Thranduil said. He tossed the cloak aside and faced Aragorn, his arms folded across his chest. "I want you to tell me why."

"It was my fault." Aragorn closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"My son is dying," Thranduil said. "I do not care if you are _sorry._ Tell me how he came into the hands of that Corsair. Tell me how a mortal was able to defile a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen and _live._"

"He did not live long," Aragorn said. "Legolas overpowered him in the end. The man responsible is dead. At least . . . one of the men responsible is dead."

Thranduil said nothing. Aragorn looked away. Despite the coolness of the morning he was sweating. His heart was pounding, and his mouth was dry. He licked his lips. He had to confess the truth of what had happened. He could not live like this, with the guilt like acid in his stomach, eating him away from the inside. The thought came to him with the recklessness of despair: if he died here at Thranduil's hand at least it would serve some justice.

"Dragaer came for me," he said. "Fifty years ago I led an attack on Umbar's ships, and I killed the leader of the Corsairs there. Dragaer was his son. He came seeking vengeance on me, and he attacked the people that I loved. He came after my people, my wife, my friends . . . and your son."

"Legolas always was more trusting of mortals than I would have liked," Thranduil said. "But he was also a warrior able to defend himself. How is it that this Man, a stranger, vanquished him?"

"He did not come as a stranger," Aragorn whispered. "He came through me." He stopped, trembling. It was a moment before he could continue. "Years ago you spoke of my heritage, the weakness in my blood. You were right. You were right."

He covered his face with his hands. "You know of the palantíri that the Elves gave to the Men of Númenor. Dragaer was also a descendent of that line. He lay in wait, and I did not see . . . he came into my mind. I came to suspect things, to believe things that could not be true. Legolas tried to reach me but . . ."

He drew a shuddering breath. "Legolas did not defend himself because the first attack did not come from a stranger. It was from someone he trusted, and honored, and he was betrayed. By me. I dealt him the first blow, perhaps the greatest one. When he left me and fell into the hands of Dragaer's men he was already weakened. And he . . . after he realized that the Corsairs were coming to attack Minas Tirith he resolved to warn me. Dragaer was able to take him, and prevent him from killing them both, because of me. I have fulfilled the legacy of my ancestors. I have murdered my dearest friend."

There was a long silence. Aragorn felt light, weak with relief at finally admitting the full depth of his betrayal. Now he would accept the consequences, and truly it was for the best. Arwen would see that, in time. She would rule well with Faramir at her side, and she and the people would be better for it. His penance would be paid, and he would not be able to hurt them again.

Then Thranduil spoke. "Do you imagine for an instant that if I believed that you were responsible for my son's condition you would still be alive?"

Aragorn looked up, startled. Thranduil glared at him. "From the first moment I felt my son's cry I knew that he suffered a grievous wrong. In the instant of our bond's breaking I felt . . ." he trailed into silence and shook his head. "You cannot conceive it. The pain was not merely physical. It was of the _faer_, agony such that it tore the link of body and soul asunder. And it was of the mind, such humiliation, confusion, despair . . ."

He looked at Aragorn, his eyes hard. "The Elves were the first beings in Middle-earth to use spoken language. But until Men came we had no word for rape. Do you understand? Among us the concept _does not exist_. Our women are wiser, and have learned to take care when visiting mortal settlements. But for a male Elf, a warrior and a Prince . . . it was beyond Legolas' conception."

Thranduil drew breath and passed a hand over his eyes. "It was his confusion more than anything that told me that he was in the hands of a stranger. Had it been you, I would have felt his anger, his pain and his rage . . . but not his bewilderment. He would have known exactly what was happening and why. He knew you."

"Not well enough," Aragorn whispered. "If he had truly known what I was capable of he would not have stayed with me. He would not have sacrificed himself in the effort to save me."

"Do not be absurd," Thranduil snapped. "It is _because _he knew you that he sacrificed himself. My son is not a fool. He did not follow the heir of Isildur out of love of your heritage or your destiny. He loved _you_, Aragorn son of Arathorn, because he recognized in you a quality greater than that of any of your ancestors. In this he was wiser than I, for he saw past the burden of history to the man you truly are."

"But I failed him!" Aragorn cried. "Don't you understand? I listened to lies of that Corsair, and part of me _agreed_ with them. Part of me _wanted_ to believe that I had to . . . I laid hands on him. He fought me, he begged me to stop, and I tried to –"

Thranduil moved faster than Aragorn could see. He glimpsed a flash of golden hair and the next instant something kicked him in the chest, knocking the wind from him. He slammed into the tree behind him, hitting his head against the trunk. He would have fallen to the ground, but Thranduil's hands were fisted in his tunic, pinning him upright.

"_Elvellon,_" Thranduil snarled inches from his face. "One more word and I will kill you here, friend or no. Understood?"

Aragorn nodded. Stars were breaking across his vision. His chest was a burning cavern, struggling for air. Speech was not an option.

"Good. Now listen." Thranduil's grip tightened. "I know the dark impulses of Men's hearts. You may never act upon them, you might even believe in your dim and limited understanding of yourselves that they do not exist. But the Enemy knows better, and He feeds upon the blackest of Men's desires. Under the Shadow's sway I saw the worst come to the fore, and the noblest of Men fall.

"Now you tell me that this Corsair, this Dragaer, came into your mind through the seeing stone of the Noldor. He planted a form of Shadow sickness there, preying upon the darkness within you: darkness that you did not know was there.

"But Legolas spent his _life _in the face of Dol Guldur. Do you think for a _second _that he did not know the worst of which you were capable? And with that knowledge he named you friend, and loved you."

Thranduil released him and stepped back. Aragorn slid down the trunk to the ground, heaving laborious draughts of air.

"You tried . . . but you stopped. That was the true spirit at your core, when all else was stripped away. That is what Legolas saw. However black the darkness is in you, the light is greater."

Thranduil crouched down to stare into Aragorn's eyes. "That is what Legolas saw in you. I am less insightful, or perhaps merely less trusting of Men. So I tell you now: if you ever lay hands on my son again I will hunt you down and I will make you _suffer _before you die. Do you understand?"

The muscles of Aragorn's throat constricted painfully as he swallowed. "Yes."

"Excellent. Then we have an accord." Thranduil stood with easy grace and bowed. "Now if you will pardon me, King Elessar, I am going to find those Men among the Corsair army who assisted in the abduction and torture of a citizen of Eryn Lasgalen."

He caught up the discarded cloak and swung it over his shoulders. He was walking away when Aragorn said, "What about Legolas?"

Thranduil stopped. His back to Aragorn, he said, "What _about _Legolas?"

"He's dying, you said." Aragorn pushed painfully to his feet, braced against the tree. "I saw it. The pain in him, the emptiness . . . I've never known anything like it before. Vengeance will not change that."

"No." Thranduil drew a long breath, released it. When he looked round at Aragorn his eyes were bleak. "It will not. Legolas will go to the Havens. He will sail on the next ship for Aman. And you will do nothing to prevent it."

Aragorn blinked, taken aback. _Of course I would not_, was his first thought. He had glimpsed the shadow over Legolas, the crushing darkness. It terrified him. He could not hope to heal that: he would not know even how to begin. Legolas' only hope, if any hope were possible, was in the Undying Lands.

_And even if I did try to stop him, what would it matter? When did Legolas ever listen –_ but he broke off there, feeling something freeze deep within him. In his mind's eye he saw again Legolas opening his shirt, giving himself up in offering.

_The Elvenking has no need of me . . . I swear myself to you, my King. My master._

_Oh Eru._ Thranduil must have told Legolas to take the ship. And in his wounded, fractured state he had interpreted that as . . . what? Sending him away? Rejecting damaged goods? _I'll explain it to him. I'll make him see reason._

Aloud he said only, "Of course, my lord. It will be as you say."

And he prayed that he spoke the truth.

* * *

1 _Elvellon_: Elf-friend. A title given to few mortals.


	43. Wounds of the Heart

"Forgiveness is the final form of love."

– Reinhold Niebuhr

Chapter 42: Wounds of the Heart

It was some time before Arwen became conscious of the change. She lingered in bed, half-dozing, peripherally aware as the sky lightened outside her window. The birds were singing. For once her bladder was not demanding that she get up immediately, and her stomach was only vaguely queasy. As long as she remained still she could ignore it.

She lay quiet, luxuriating in the morning's peace. Outside the city would be waking, and the citadel councilors would have a hundred tasks requiring her attention, but she would not think about that now. She would enjoy this brief time for herself. And then she realized what was different.

For the first time in months she did not dread the coming day. The weight of tension and fear that she had carried for so long had finally lifted, and she felt as though the sun were breaking through winter clouds. Aragorn had returned, and if she could not yet fully trust him . . . well, he had sworn himself to her and to their child. Upon his soul, he had said. In this moment she was just optimistic enough to believe that was enough.

She rolled onto her back, reaching for him, and her hand encountered the barren stretch of the featherbed beside her. She pushed herself up on her elbow, frowning. The bedchamber was empty. Aragorn was gone.

Fear fluttered beneath her breast. She pushed it down, telling herself not to be foolish. He could not have returned to the Tower. The palantír was gone.

She got to her feet and a wave of sickness overwhelmed her. She dashed for the chamber closet, making it just in time. She knelt on the stone floor afterward, feeling the sweat cold upon her brow. She had thought that she was done with this. He had said that she was no longer alone, and she, foolish girl, had believed him.

She made her way slowly to the washbasin that was still sitting by the bed. She rinsed her mouth and washed her hands and face. She was drying her hands on a towel when the door opened and Aragorn entered the room.

He looked tired, his shoulders bowed and his face drawn with strain. He was rubbing his chest absently, as if it pained him. But on seeing her his eyes lit, and he smiled.

"I had hoped you would still be asleep," he said. "It's early yet."

He came forward to kiss her. She permitted the embrace, but did not respond. He stepped back and looked at her. "What is wrong?"

She avoided his eyes. "Where were you last night?"

"The Houses of Healing," he said. "Legolas called me to attend Gimli."

"Oh." She turned away, hugging her arms around herself. "Were you successful?"

Aragorn sighed. "Gimli is recovering."

Arwen had fixed her gaze on the open window. She hesitated a moment, then said, "I wish that you would not leave at night without telling me."

"Is that what this is about? I'm sorry," he said. "I did not expect to be gone so long. It will not happen again."

She nodded. For all the anguish that they had overcome, she thought, he was still only a man, with a man's thoughtlessness. How strange that they could survive so much and still have to cope with the ordinary trials of married life.

She made an effort and spoke lightly. "You did not tell me that Gimli was hurt."

"Did I not? I'm sorry." He laughed humorlessly. "I seem to be saying that a great deal of late. But I am sorry. I must have had other things on my mind."

"I suppose you did." She moved to face him, pushing the hair back from her face. She looked at him and then gasped. "Your hands!"

Aragorn glanced down. The skin of his hands was scraped raw, his knuckles red and battered. He shrugged. "It is nothing."

"Nothing!" Arwen took his right hand and gently turned it over. The underside was in better shape, but a dark bruise was blossoming at the heel, just before the juncture with the wrist. "What happened?"

"Less than I deserved," Aragorn muttered. He avoided her eyes. "Arwen, truly it is nothing."

"For a Ranger six months out in the Wild, perhaps," Arwen said, leading him to the washstand. "For a King safe in his own city it is definitely something."

She cleaned the abraded skin as well as she could, pouring the last of the pitcher's water over his hands. His mouth tightened as she did so, but he did not pull away. His knuckles had the worst of it. She tied a clean cloth around each hand to serve as a bandage.

"Was Gimli badly hurt?"

"Bad enough," Aragorn said, inspecting his wrapping. "Dragaer stabbed him."

"Because he was protecting Legolas?" At his nod she released a long breath, sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed. "Oh Elbereth. How is Legolas taking it?"

Aragorn groaned. "Not well. He – wait." He frowned. "You refer to Gimli's injury? Why would that affect him?"

"He is a warrior of Mirkwood, and Gimli is his brother-in-arms," Arwen said. "Gimli nearly died in the effort to save him. That is a debt that Legolas must repay."

Aragorn stared at her. "No," he said.

Arwen raised her eyebrows. "Come now," she said. "How long have you known Legolas? You must have expected this."

"No," Aragorn shook his head. "It is not possible. You have not seen him. He . . . he's been through too much. The darkness in him, the pain . . . it is crushing him. He cannot feel anything else. No one could."

"Then why is he here?" Arwen said. "He was fading: he had the chance to escape that pain. He knew full well what it would mean to return. Why did he?"

"Revenge," Aragorn said. "I saw it when I – when he contacted me through the palantír. He swore to kill Dragaer."

"Aragorn," Arwen said gently. "No vengeance in the world is that strong. Even if it could sustain him for a time, in returning he condemned himself to suffering greater than anything he could inflict on the Corsair. That is not revenge. He did not come for Dragaer. He came for Gimli, and for you. He came for love."

"No . . ." Aragorn sank into a chair beside the window and buried his face in his hands. "Then I bear responsibility for this too. Everything is my fault."

"Not _everything_," Arwen said. "The Corsair captain was cunning. You cannot usurp his share of the blame."

Aragorn snorted. "You sound like Thranduil."

Arwen tensed. "You spoke to King Thranduil about this?"

"This morning, before I came here," Aragorn said. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I told him everything. But he said that I . . ." he trailed off and shook his head. "It does not matter. He absolved me."

Arwen gave a shaky laugh. "You sound disappointed."

"I did not earn it!" Aragorn jumped to his feet and began to pace. "I betrayed Legolas, I betrayed you. I endangered our people. I tried to – Eru! I nearly killed Faramir. I would have done so if not for Legolas. Every man who died, every person wounded, was because of me. Imrahil is dead because of me. Legolas is suffering that – that living death because of me. And no one will hold me accountable. No one will give me the punishment I deserve."

"What punishment do you deserve?" Arwen said. She stood, meeting his storm-dark gaze. "What would suffice for all of that? Exile? Death? Torture? What, Aragorn?"

"I do not know! Any of them – all of them. I do not know."

"If you told Thranduil that litany of sins you likely came very close to getting your wish," Arwen said. "The Elvenking is not generally known for his restraint."

She sighed. "My family has known King Thranduil for a great many years. He is beyond stubborn, fiercely independent, touchy and prideful – he has caused my grandfather no end of headaches over the millennia. But he is also a great ruler and a wise King. Even my father has admitted as much. He judged you fairly and he treated you in accordance with the judgment that you deserved. The full Council of Gondor could do no better."

Aragorn looked away. "I have not told you everything," he whispered. "In Harad, I . . ." he stopped and passed a hand over his eyes. "Eru, I was so afraid . . . it was like an eclipse inside of me, blotting out everything else."

"What did you fear?"

He swallowed hard. "Losing control. All my life I have known that I was weak; that I would fail. I fought so hard, but I could feel the madness taking me, as if I were outside myself, watching as I did . . . terrible things. I was losing my mind, and it terrified me. I had to control . . ."

He broke off, trembling.

"Control what?" she asked. "Yourself? Or us?" He looked at her, and she drew a slow breath in understanding. "Legolas? But – you told me that you did not –"

"I did not," Aragorn said. "But I tried. Valar, I tried. I thought . . . I do not know what I thought. But it was as if by conquering him I could gain complete power over my own weakness. Breaking him would somehow . . . free me: end the doubt, the fear. It was madness."

"It was," Arwen said. Her hands had clenched convulsively, the muscles of her neck knotting as she listened. A dull ache pulsed behind her temple. _It is nothing you did not suspect before_, she thought despairingly. _Nothing has changed._ But it had. Suspicion, even when she had seen Legolas' injuries for herself, was one thing. Hearing the words from his lips was something else entirely.

She wanted to lash out, to injure him in turn. _How? Send him away? Imprison him?_ She could do it. He stood before her, waiting. She saw the hesitance in his eyes, the expectation of hurt. _What punishment would suffice_, she thought, turning the words back on herself. _Exile?_ _Death? Torture?_

_How long do we hold on to this pain?_

"Did you tell Thranduil this?"

"Not all of it," he admitted. "I started to, but . . ." he shook his head again. "He did not wish to hear it."

"No. I imagine that he did not." She drew a shuddering breath. "He knew – I know – that in justice you were as much a victim as any of us. Perhaps more. But hearing the words aloud makes it hard to think in terms of justice."

She dashed a hand over her eyes. "Do you know why you – why Dragaer fixated on Legolas?"

Aragorn blinked. "He was the strongest, and the closest to me. He was the greatest threat to Dragaer's hold on me."

"And that was all, was it?" Her voice was perilously close to breaking.

"Arwen," he caught her hand. "Arwen, listen to me. I love you. From the first moment I saw you I have loved you. There is no other, and there never will be. Send me away and I will go, but I will not stop loving you. Kill me and I will die loving you."

_So you say,_ she thought. _And I think you truly believe it. But if that were all . . . was there no other way to conquer him? Can you ever face the true reason why it was rape, why it was Legolas?_

_Can I?_

Her vision blurred as her breath hitched in her chest. Valar, it seemed that she would never stop crying. "This weakness you feared in yourself – why did you not tell me?"

"You already knew," he said. "You have always known."

She had.

_Why do you fear the past?_

_The same blood flows in my veins . . . the same weakness._

"Then why did you not let me help you?" she said.

"You did help me," he said. He bowed his head. "As much as I could bear, you did. And Legolas did more. You saw what consequence it had for him . . . I could not allow you to risk that."

She breathed in slowly, centering herself. "The risk is mine to take," she said, "as much as it is yours. You said that I was strong. Trust in my strength. The Corsair is dead and his shadow is gone. Let it go. Let us be as we were before."

His face creased in anguish. "How can I? If I am denied penance, how can I ever earn forgiveness?"

_How can I share your heart with another? How can I do anything else?_

"Sometimes forgiveness cannot be earned," she said. "Sometimes it simply is."

She touched his face, drawing him around to look at her. "As for penance, you will not die, nor go into exile. We need you now, and you shall not escape us so easily. Trust us. Let us help you. You will face the same fear, the same doubt every day, and with us you will triumph."

Aragorn covered her hand with his. "And every day I will see my dearest friend in agony, done by my hand and beyond reach of my healing," he said. His lips quirked into a smile so bitter that it caught her breath in her throat. "So at least the third option is still open to me."

"He knows he must sail, and he may yet find peace," Arwen said. _He will be beyond your grasp, whether you think to reach for him or not. _"We must help him while he remains, as much as we can. That too is a penance."

*~*~*

Gimli awoke with a massive headache. Sometime in the night all the smiths of Moria had taken up residence in his skull with the evident intent of hammering his head loose from his body. Their activities were churning his stomach, which was sending signals of the sort he had not experienced since the morning after Aragorn's coronation feast. He licked dry lips and cracked open his eyes, only to close them immediately as fresh pain lanced through him.

"Ohhhh . . ."

"Ah, you're awake. Excellent."

Gimli turned his head, squinting cautiously. A blurred figure was standing over him, silhouetted against the sunshine that flooded the room. "Whassat?"

"Here." A hand cradled the back of his head as a cup was raised to his lips. "Drink this. It will help."

Gimli sipped the liquid, wrinkling his nose at the bitter taste. But he was a warrior long experienced to battle and injury, and he had had worse concoctions forced on him by healers in the past. He finished the cup with grim stoicism and lay back. His stomach was curled into a small outraged ball, apparently too shocked by this latest assault to fight back.

"Better?" A woman dressed in pale grey robes stood at his side, watching him kindly.

"Um," Gimli said noncommittally. The drink had left a vile taste in his mouth, but at least the sunlight no longer stabbed his eyes. He turned his head carefully, taking in the blank walls and anonymous furnishings that, more than anything else, told him he was in the Houses of Healing.

A Man was standing in the center of the room with arms folded, chewing on his lip as he stared down at him. Gimli startled, and then winced as his chest and head throbbed. "You!"

"Me," Lord Trypline agreed. He rubbed his chin, studying Gimli with the air of a man inspecting a somewhat interesting insect. "I must say you regained consciousness rather sooner than we'd expected. Considering the severity of your injury you are recovering remarkably well."

"Recovering . . ." Gimli tensed as the memories came rushing back. "Legolas! Where's Legolas? That pirate got past me – he's going to kill Legolas!"

"Peace, elvellon, I am here." All three of them whipped around to look at the window, where Legolas sat perched on the sill. The sudden movement made Gimli's head ache anew, and he fell back on his pillows with a groan.

"You can't walk through the door like a normal person? You have to startle the life out of me on my sickbed?"

"I am sorry, Gimli. I could not stay behind stone walls this day."

"You should be in bed," Trypline said disapprovingly. "Lord Legolas, I really cannot have my patients walking out of these Houses whenever the fancy takes them."

Legolas' expression hardened. "I am not subject to your authority."

"You are a patient in my care, and you are required to follow the dictates of this House until I determine you are fit for release."

"Indeed?" Legolas stared at him. "Would you care to test that theory?"

"Hey," Gimli interjected, trying to defuse the tension. "He's not the only patient here. How about giving some attention to the fellow with the sword through his chest, eh?"

"Yes," Trypline said, breaking eye contact with Legolas. He coughed. "Well, as I said, you are making progress. Thanks to hours of expert surgical care the wound is closed. If you obey your healers and _rest_," he emphasized the words, "you should have a full recovery."

"Glad to hear it," Gimli said. "Now," he shifted into a more comfortable position, careful not to make any sudden movements, "how about you all clear out and let me get that rest?"

Trypline sniffed loudly and turned to leave. Gimli hesitated, honor wrestling with pride within him. It galled him to admit any debt to the sanctimonious healer, but – "Wait," he said as Trypline reached the door. The healer paused and looked back at him.

"Thank you," Gimli said. "For everything."

Trypline looked surprised, and then nodded. "You are welcome," he said. For a moment he too seemed to hesitate, and then keeping his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Gimli's head he said rapidly, "It is an honor to serve one of the Nine Walkers."

He bowed and went out. The young woman followed him, her lips compressed as if she were trying not to smile.

Gimli watched them go. He could almost come to like the snooty sod, he thought in bemusement. When the door closed behind them he pulled himself back to immediate concerns. "So? Are you going to come in, or just sit out there on the ledge all day?"

"I have experienced worse," Legolas said, but he ducked through the window and came to Gimli's side. "Here," he poured a glass of water from the pitcher on Gimli's bedside table. "This should help clear the taste from your mouth."

"Thank you," Gimli said, accepting it gratefully. "How did you know?"

"Some things are universal to all healers," Legolas said. "They believe that if it doesn't taste like Orc excrement it doesn't work."

Gimli snorted, then winced at the pain in his chest. "Did Aragorn tell you that?"

Legolas froze. Gimli cursed himself for a fool – for just a moment it had felt as if things were normal again, and he had spoken without thinking.

"What happened with Dragaer?" he said to cover his mistake. "Last I knew he was stepping over me with a bloody great sword in his hand, and you weren't in such good shape yourself."

"He died," Legolas said.

"Oh," Gimli said. He looked long at Legolas, drinking in the sight of his friend alive and hale. Well, perhaps not hale. Legolas looked thinner than ever, the bones of his face stark beneath his skin, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. But he was alive. He was alive. Gimli could have sung in joy and thanks to Mahal and all the Valar for that.

"Well . . . good." he spoke gruffly to hide his moment of sentiment. "Good. I'm bloody annoyed that I didn't get to do it myself, mind – sit out the whole ruddy battle, and when I finally get my chance the bastard bloody well stabs me in the chest . . . but . . . good. He's dead. You did that?"

Legolas did not answer for several minutes. Gimli was casting about for something else to say when the Elf finally spoke in a low voice.

"I did my part. Aragorn delivered the final blow."

"_Aragorn?_" Gimli shouted, and coughed, pressing his hand against the bandage that swathed his upper chest and neck. "That – that – _Aragorn _killed him? I spend days trying to protect you and the bloody crazy King of the West gets the killing blow? Where's the justice in that?"

"I would have given him to you had you been able, elvellon," Legolas said

"Hmph." Gimli subsided, grumbling under his breath. "What about the battle? The Corsairs? Is there _anyone _left that I can kill?"

"The Corsairs are in custody of King Thranduil, awaiting trial," Legolas said. "You may yet get your chance."

"_Thranduil _is here now?" Gimli cried. "When did that happen?"

"Yesterday."

"But . . ." Gimli grabbed at his beard in frustration. "How did they know? There's no way that Faramir got a message to Mirkwood that fast –"

"I can answer no more questions," Legolas said. He edged toward the open window. "You should rest."

Gimli scarcely heard him. He was feeling at his beard. He had reached to pull it out of habit – but his hand had encountered only the fabric bandage on his chest.  Something was terribly wrong. He ran his hands slowly up his chest and along his neck in growing horror.

"Legolas! Where's a mirror? Get me a mirror!"

The Elf stopped with one foot on the window ledge. He sighed, then crossed the room and took a metal basin from a table at the far wall. "You may as well learn the truth now."

Gimli snatched the basin from his hand. It was polished to a dull sheen, and he stared anxiously at his reflection in its side.

His beard was cropped to a scant inch of growth over his cheeks. The rich tresses were gone, the warrior braids shorn completely away. What remained was a ragged patchwork of uneven hair with the bare skin showing through in places.

He let out a howl of anguish. "Those butchering incompetent fools! What have they done to me?"

"They have saved your life, I expect," Legolas said.

"My _life?_" Gimli roared. He threw the basin away from him. It struck the far wall and clattered to the floor. "My _life?_ This is an outrage! A travesty! What in Mahal's name did they think they were doing?"

"As fine as it was, no one could clean your wound while your beard was in the way," Legolas said. "But they may have kept it for you somewhere . . . you could ask the nurse."

"_Kept it?_" Gimli cried. "That beard was a lifetime's work! My beads of rank, my braids of craft, my honors – gone! Gone! I'll be a laughingstock – the lord of Aglarond made into the lowliest beggar of the exile. They should have left me to die!"

"Some of the greatest lords of Middle-earth wear no beards," Legolas said quietly. "And . . . I prefer the living Gimli with no beard to one dead, even though his beard be as fine as that of Mahal himself."

Gimli flopped on his back and pulled his quilt over his head. "Don't look at me," he mumbled. "I'm hideous."

"Gimli –"

"Just go away, can't you? I need to rest."

Silence greeted this statement. Gimli lay still, feigning sleep, until the heat and stale air under the quilt forced him to push it off his face. The window was still open, its drapes stirring in the breeze. Legolas was gone.


	44. Of Duty, Love and Loss

"No one is free; even the birds are chained to the sky."

– Bob Dylan

Chapter 43: Of Duty, Love and Loss

Arwen took Aragorn with her into the Council chamber that day and the next. She was determined that they see his mind restored and that none should question the value in which she held his judgment. She did stop short of requiring the Council to swear fealty again to him, and this was wise, for many were hesitant to accept his apparent change of heart. These men, like Faramir, had seen their loved ones leveraged to seal the King's hold over them, and they did not forget.

The Steward himself did much to bridge the mistrust between them. Everyone knew what he had suffered at Elessar's hands, and they watched to see how he acted toward the King.

Faramir did not try to sway them either to condemn or to pardon Aragorn. He too had not forgotten, and he gave no sign that he was ready to forgive. But he treated Aragorn with the same quiet courtesy that he showed everyone, and he listened gravely to his counsel. This, together with the Queen's firm support, led them to accept his presence, if grudgingly.

For his part Aragorn infringed upon their deliberations as little as possible. He sat at Arwen's right hand, listening to all that they said and speaking only when necessary. In everything that he said and did he strove to show himself humbled, penitent, and above all else sane.

But however necessary it might be, it was hard to sit there when he was needed elsewhere. The councilors were fully capable of handling the minutiae of the city's recovery with little help from the King or Queen. Listening as their discussion dragged on, Aragorn was acutely aware of the passage of time, and increasingly anxious to escape.

A full day and night had passed since Gimli had regained consciousness and refused all visitors. The chief healer told Aragorn that Legolas had been present when the Dwarf awoke, but he had left shortly thereafter and no one had seen the Elf since.

Aragorn had sought him in the cool of the evening that first day, but Legolas was not in the Houses of Healing, or the gardens of the citadel, or in his chambers. With each dead end the band around Aragorn's heart tightened a little more. Unbidden images rose in his mind: Legolas kneeling, Legolas opening his tunic, and he thrust them away, shuddering. Where had the Elf gone? In the midst of despair, what had he done?

One possibility remained. Aragorn shied from it, but from the beginning he knew that his search would lead him to the Elven camp outside the city, and to Thranduil. He had no desire to provoke the Elvenking again, but for Legolas' sake he had to take the chance.

He had not forgotten the horrifying vision of the shadow over Legolas. He did not know what he could do to overcome that – he did not even know if it were possible to overcome it – but he had to try. Even now his muscles were knotted with the need to move, to fight, to do _something _to help his friend.

But Gondor came first, as it had always done. Thranduil was right: worthy or not, he must serve so long as the people would have him. He was aware of the irony of that, for this was one moment when he would have gladly relinquished the crown, to be free to do as his heart demanded. They might have taken the title of King from him, but they could not take the duty that bound him even in the face of Legolas' need.

It was mid-morning of the second day and the Council was detailing Faramir's plan of setting the Corsair captives to digging graves for Gondor's fallen. A man tired from a day's work was less likely to attempt escape than one left idle, he said.

This was all well and true, but they had been discussing the same point for half an hour now, and Aragorn's patience was frayed to the breaking point. The morning was slipping away, and with every hour Legolas might be that much more beyond his reach.

Aragorn cleared his throat, interrupting one old councilor's pontification. "Lord Garwick makes a good point. The gravediggers will need to be escorted out of the Corsair camp, and guarded while they work."

Arwen nodded. "I trust that King Thranduil's guard will be sufficient to manage them. We should submit it to him immediately."

"I will go," Aragorn said.

Arwen looked at him, and there was something in her eyes that he could not identify. "Would you go to seek Thranduil, or Legolas?" she murmured. Before he could answer she turned away and spoke for all the room to hear. "What then of the Corsair dead?"

"Pile the bodies and burn them," Garwick said.

There was a rumble of approval from the rest of the Council. Aragorn straightened in his chair.

"That is how we dispose of Orcs, not Men," he said.

"They are agents of the Enemy!" Garwick snapped. His grandson, Captain Aelon of the King's Guard, had been killed upon the wall of Minas Tirith. "They treated with Sauron, and after his fall they lay in wait, buying time with false oaths of peace while they amassed to destroy us!"

The murmuring grew louder. Several of the men seated around the chamber were nodding. Aragorn looked around at them all, hard-eyed men whose faces bore marks of the strain of the past few days.

Five hundred and eighty-five Men had died in the battle for Minas Tirith. Of those, two hundred and twenty were Gondorians: nearly half of the regiment Aragorn had left to guard the city. The men gathered here in the Council chamber had seen their families and homes threatened by an unprovoked attack; three had sons wounded or killed in the fighting.

"My lords," Aragorn said. "They are Men. Whatever crimes they have –"

"They betrayed our mercy!" Garwick's voice shook. "We granted them clemency before, if you remember. Now see how they repaid us!"

"I have seen, my lord. But they followed one who promised to restore them to their homeland. Given those circumstances, what son of Gondor –"

"You _dare _to compare those dogs to –"

"Enough!" Arwen raised her hand. "I thank you to speak civilly, my lords."

There was a pause. Then Garwick bowed. "I ask pardon, Your Majesty."

"Granted, and gladly," Arwen said. Her voice softened. "Captain Aelon was a brave and honorable man, and he served his country above all. His stand will be remembered in song and ballad, so long as there are Men and Elves to sing it."

Garwick met her gaze, and slowly his rheumy eyes filled with tears. His chin trembled, and he tightened his lips and looked away. "Thank you, my lady," he said. He bowed low and sat, his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the table in front of him.

"The matter remains," Aragorn said into the silence. "The Corsairs fought for a man who promised to restore them to lands they view as rightfully theirs. Were it our people who were exiled from their home I know that every one of us here would do the same. They deserve –"

"They deserve to be torn limb from limb, and for their heads to be staked upon the gateposts for the crows!" one of the councilors said, and the others nodded agreement. "Gondor is _not _their land."

"But Umbar was," Aragorn said.

Lord Gryer, the head of the Council, had sat unmoving through the debate with his hands steepled in front of him and his eyes fixed on Aragorn. Now he spoke for the first time. "What do you propose, my lord?"

"The Corsair dead should be buried, with respect paid to their own customs," Aragorn said. "Then we can offer terms to the survivors."

"_Terms?_" Garwick was standing again, shaking with rage. "You would negotiate with those black-hearted, treacherous, murdering _pirates?_"

A babble of voices broke out as most of the room leapt to their feet, gesturing and shouting over each other. Aragorn tried to speak and was drowned out, his voice lost in the confusion.

"They killed Imrahil –"

"They broke faith before, they lied to us –"

"He would surrender us to them!"

"Kill them all! The sword is all they understand."

"They drove the King mad, they made him –"

"Do they still control him? Is that why –"

"My lords! _My lords!_" Aragorn shouted. Then, "_It was not the Corsair who made me betray you!_"

A shocked silence fell. Aragorn stood alone, his heart trip-hammering in his chest. The men were frozen, staring at him. Arwen sat poised in her chair, watching him. He glanced at her and swallowed hard.

"I was afraid," he said. "I feared that I could not surmount the legacy of my House; that I would fail even as my ancestors had failed before me. I feared that Gondor was weak. I saw us surrounded by enemies both real and imagined, and I allowed my fear to isolate and further weaken me. I tried to save Gondor, but it was fear that drove me and allowed the Corsair captain to manipulate me, to lead me to seek strength in power alone. I never intended it so, but all that you have suffered here was a result of my weakness. I betrayed Gondor; I betrayed you all, not because of the seduction of the palantír or the schemes of the enemy, but because I was afraid."

They were listening. The men of the Council stood with arms folded, frowning, exchanging glances with each other, but they were listening. Aragorn drew a breath and continued, his voice low and clear in the stillness of their waiting.

"Now you speak of vengeance and distrust, and what I hear is that you are afraid. You would violate the dead and slaughter unarmed prisoners, and the people would cheer you as you did so. And every man you kill will leave behind a son, a brother, a friend, who will learn of your act and curse your name, and teach his children to hate you for it."

He looked around at them all. One by one they dropped their eyes, unable to look him in the face. But in the far corner Faramir stood silent, and met Aragorn's eyes with a steadfast gaze.

"Gondor is stronger than that," Aragorn said. "Her strength lies in her allies, in friendship with Men, Elves and Dwarves. So long as we are true to that friendship she will never falter. If we give into fear and vengeance now we will breed violence and more violence, and she will never have peace. So I say we end it here. Break the cycle, and let all of Middle-earth know that we are strong, and merciful in our strength. I am no longer afraid."

There was a long pause. Then Faramir came forward, pacing cat-quiet through the hushed room, and his eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Aragorn. "You offered the Corsairs clemency once before, my lord," he said. "What guarantee have you that they will not betray our trust again?"

"Before we left them in exile," Aragorn said. "Now I propose that we give them the chance to live again in Umbar, integrated with our people."

There was a sharp intake of breath around the room, and Aragorn continued swiftly before the shouting broke out again. "Hear me, all of you! Consider our options. We can kill them all, Men who committed no crime other than to fight for what they considered the rights of their people. Or we can exile them as we did before, sworn to an oath of peace without any hope of honor, livelihood or strength. Or – _or _we can offer them honor in exchange for their oath, the chance to sail under Gondor's flag and to live again in the lands of their ancestors, as one with our people, their brothers."

There was a pause when he finished, and then the muttering rose from all sides like the burgeoning patter of rain before a storm. Aragorn caught a few phrases: "He is mad, he must be . . ." "But the point remains, what else can we do?" "Are we all to become pirates, then?"

He realized that he was shaking and sank back into his chair, letting the aftermath of adrenalin wash through him. Arwen was watching him. He offered her a wan smile. "What do you think?"

She regarded him solemnly. "They are not all innocent, these Corsairs. They did not only fight for their lands, not all of them."

Aragorn sighed. "I know," he said. Then, speaking for her ears alone, "Thranduil said that he would find the ones who committed . . . those crimes. I think it best to leave them to him."

She nodded. "Mirkwood is not noted for leniency toward those who have wronged it."

"So much the better," Aragorn said. "I have faith that they can manage the consequences." Then he looked up. "What say you, Faramir? Will they agree?"

"Give them a week to argue it amongst themselves," Faramir said, stopping beside the twin thrones and surveying the room with a practiced eye. "It was well said, my lord. They will agree in time."

"They think me mad," Aragorn said.

"I have seen madness," Faramir said. "This is not it."

He held Aragorn's gaze for a moment, and then they both began to smile.

Aragorn stood up. "Then shall we leave them to it? You have a daughter to attend to, and I –"

"Queen Undómiel!" A cry interrupted him, and the room fell silent as men turned, opening a path for a page who came hurrying forward. "Queen Undómiel, the army has returned!"

*~*~*

"What happened here?" the young Rider spoke in a hushed voice, looking around him with wide eyes. Éomer did not answer.

The small group picked their way through the narrow streets of Minas Tirith, their horses following on lead reins behind them. The scorched stone and blackened timbers of the lower levels told a clear story, even had they not passed through the Elven encampment and seen their prisoners hemmed outside the city walls. Three armies now filled the Pelennor, a densely packed mass of tents and pennants stretching as far as the eye could see. The men of Gondor and Rohan had been forced to camp miles away, bordering the Elven army to the very edge of the Rammas Echor.

Éomer left his entourage at the sixth circle with instructions to stable the horses and find what accommodations they could in the city. Natives of Minas Tirith would soon be returning to their own homes, but the great majority of the army would have to remain outside the walls until they were given leave to disperse.

He continued alone into the seventh circle, climbing the cobbled road up under a clear blue sky. The guards at the gatepost saluted as he passed. The courtyard was crowded with tents and makeshift shelters, its grass trampled to mud. But the white stone of the walls was unmarred. He strode toward the citadel, his helm tucked under his arm and his cloak billowing behind him.

He passed the White Tree. The young sapling's branches were heavy with blossoms, and petals drifted over the surface of the reflecting pool at its base. He was nearly at the citadel steps when the doors opened and Queen Arwen came down to meet him, followed closely by Faramir and Aragorn with assorted members of Gondor's ruling Council.

Éomer halted in mid-stride, staring at the King. Aragorn looked weary but whole, and he returned Éomer's gaze with calm regard, his eyes clear of the madness that had so frightened Éomer in Harad.

"Well met, Éomer King," Arwen said. "We are most glad to see you."

Éomer looked from her to the King and back again. Aragorn hung back, not speaking, and Éomer saw several of the Council lords watching him with narrowed eyes. At his side stood Faramir, who last Éomer knew had been imprisoned in the dungeon. He processed the implications swiftly and bowed to the Queen.

"Your Majesty," he said. "I wish that I could say we had come in the hour of need, but it seems we missed that by a considerable margin. What happened here?"

"A great deal," Arwen said. "And it is a tale better heard when you are rested. But Aragorn returned to us four days ago. Was the army so slow in following?"

"We were delayed," Éomer said. "We encountered the enemy in Umbar."

"_Umbar!_" The word ran as a frisson of energy through the watching crowd. Aragorn stepped forward.

"The Corsairs marched through Umbar on their way to Minas Tirith," he said. "They must have left a battalion behind to occupy the city."

"Aye," Éomer said. "A regiment of Dol Amroth had engaged them when we arrived, but they were too many for them and our aid was welcome. The Corsair survivors told us that the main force had gone up river to Gondor, and we followed as swiftly as we were able." He looked at Aragorn. "Would that I had heeded you, my lord. It seems we missed the greater battle, and Minas Tirith would have come to an ill fate indeed were it not for the Elves. How did they . . .?"

"All that in time," Arwen said. "You saved the people of Umbar from lasting occupation and torment, for it would have been many days yet before we learned of their plight. That was a deed well done. How did you know to travel there?"

"I still think we would have done better to follow Elessar straight to Gondor," Éomer said. "But we found Legolas' horse in the desert, and tracked him back to the spoor of a great army which journeyed westward to the coast. Given the circumstances I did as I thought best."

"A good thing, too," one of the councilors said. He was an old man, stooped, with faded blue eyes that fixed piercingly on Aragorn. "Do you still believe we should align ourselves with those murderers and rapists, my lord?"

Aragorn's face creased as if in pain, and he closed his eyes briefly before he spoke. "Our options have not changed, Lord Garwick."

Éomer looked from one to the other. "Much here has changed," he said. "But now I am weary, and with your leave I will seek my wife and retire to our chambers."

"By all means," Arwen said. "Rest well, and with our thanks."

Éomer inclined his head to her, and climbed the steps as the councilors parted to let him pass. He had reached the front hall when Faramir caught him up.

"You'll find the lady Lothíriel in the Steward's quarters," he said. "She stayed with us, after the battle."

Éomer looked at him sharply. "She is not hurt?"

"No," Faramir said. "But there is more that you should know before you join her. And . . . my lady Éowyn has something to show you."

*~*~*

"How is he?"

Farothlin got to his feet and bowed. "Much the same, my lord. He has not spoken since we left the city."

Thranduil sighed. Clasping his fourth son on the shoulder, he passed on through the partition that divided the main tent from the private room beyond. A gentle breeze carried the scents of grass and horses from the field outside through the open panels of the tent walls. Above this small room the stiff deer hide of the tent's roof had been tied back, creating an opening though which streamed the noonday sunlight. It was the only way that they had been able to persuade Thranduil's youngest to remain inside at all.

The room was simply furnished with a cot, chair, and a table upon which sat a tray of untouched food. The walls were cast into dim shadows by the brightness of the sunlight upon the carpet in the center. Legolas huddled in a far corner, just beyond the sun's reach, his arms wrapped around his knees and his face tilted up toward the patch of blue sky overhead.

Thranduil walked with measured steps to stand opposite him, facing his son across the pool of light. "The armies of Gondor and Rohan have returned," he said.

Legolas remained motionless for a long moment, as though he had not heard. Then slowly he turned his head, regarding Thranduil with a dull, incurious gaze.

"I gave the King of Rohan free passage to the city," Thranduil said. "The mortals will be arranging their affairs now, the details of which do not concern me. But I think soon we will be free to leave the Corsairs to them and return to Eryn Lasgalen."

Legolas said nothing. Thranduil bit back an impatient oath and tried again. "I have sent word to Ithilien informing them of our plans. I expect they will ask to see you before you depart."

This also elicited no reaction, and the silence stretched long between them before Thranduil continued. "I was . . . reluctant . . . when you proposed a colony so near to the King of Gondor. I know that I questioned the wisdom of your alliance."

Something flickered then in Legolas' eyes, and his lips parted in what might have been a breath of laughter, or of pain. Thranduil sighed.

"But I have heard much over the years of your progress there. The land is healing under your care, they tell me, and well do I know how your people love you. I wish only that I had come to see your achievements myself before now."

Legolas lifted his head at that, and his gaze sharpened. Thranduil looked full into his eyes. "The War required much of you, and you served with honor to your people as I knew you would," he said quietly. "But beyond the requirements of duty you have repaired the scars of the Enemy, and re-forged the friendship between Elves, Dwarves and Men. You will leave Middle-earth better for your presence, and that is the most anyone could ask. I am so proud of you, my son."

Legolas looked away. A muscle jumped in the side of his face as his jaw tightened. His long fingers laced together, tensed, their knuckles white. He swallowed, and his eyes closed.

"How long have I served you, my lord? You need not say this."

"I do," Thranduil said. "Too often it has gone unsaid, and too soon the time will come when I will not be able to speak with you at all. So I say it now: I am proud of you, Legolas. I only regret that I did not tell you before. The Shadow fell too soon after your birth, and we were hard-pressed, but I should have given more time to praise, not merely to correct you. Your mother used to chide me for not . . ." he trailed off and shook his head. "There is much that I regret," he said.

Legolas was trembling. "Do not say this," he whispered.

Thranduil stepped forward into the light. "Legolas, I –"

"No!" Legolas leaped to his feet, avoiding Thranduil's hand. "Do not say this! Do not tell me that you are proud, or that you love me – I have not earned it!"

Thranduil stopped, his hand outstretched. It was a moment before he could speak. When he did he kept his voice even by main force of will. "How would you merit love, my son? For that matter, how would you fail to earn it?"

Legolas shook his head, backing away. His shoulders curved inward, his back pressed to the tent wall. "I should have died," he said. "I should have killed them – I said that I would kill them if they touched me, but I failed. I failed. I let them . . . do not look at me!"

He slid down to crouch again, his face turned to the wall and his arms wrapped around his knees. Standing in the pool of sunshine, his eyes dazzled by the light, Thranduil could hardly see him.

"I should have forced them to kill me. I allowed them to . . . he defiled a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen!" Legolas' breath was harsh, loud in the space between them. When he spoke again his voice was a bare whisper. "I cannot bear it when you look at me."

"My son," Thranduil murmured. "Oh, my son." He ached to hold him, but Legolas was turned away, curled into the smallest possible corner. Thranduil lowered his hand.

"How many were they?"

"Father, please –"

"Lord Legolas, report! You are a captain of the Greenwood. Give the number and armament of the enemy."

Legolas straightened. "Thirteen in all, including the Corsair captain," he said. "They carried clubs. The captain had a sword. I killed two in the fight. Dragaer died later."

"Thirteen against one," Thranduil breathed. He crouched down, balancing on his toes, and touched the tip of one forefinger to the bandage at his son's wrist. Legolas flinched away. "And you would call that failure? All those patrols you led in Greenwood and not one of them told me you were so harsh a commander."

Legolas bowed his head, pressing his forehead to his knees. He did not answer. Thranduil rose to his feet and drew a slow breath. "So there are ten remaining." He started to turn away, and then paused.

"You have done honor to your people, Prince Legolas. Your oath will be fulfilled. And I am proud of you, now more than ever."

He was nearly at the door when Legolas spoke, and the pain in his voice was matched by the quick-silver hurt of his words. "I am no longer a captain, nor a Prince. I have sworn myself to another."

Thranduil stopped. Keeping very still, he said, "When?"

"The night before last."

"To Elessar?"

"Yes."

"Ah." Thranduil swallowed. "Was this oath taken willingly, or under duress?"

When Legolas did not speak he turned. "You are still my son. Answer me."

"I . . ." Legolas shook his head. "I do not know. He healed Gimli . . . I do not know."

"Well," Thranduil said. "I do. I have not released you from my service. You are not free to swear allegiance to anyone, whether Elessar wishes it or not."

He ducked through the partition and back into the gentle light of the main tent. Farothlin was waiting for him, a frown etched upon the fine planes of his face. He began speaking without preamble.

"King Elessar requests an audience with you."

"He will have to wait," Thranduil said. "Tell his messenger that I will entertain him this evening at . . ." he considered briefly, "eight o'clock. Until then I am otherwise engaged."

"There is no messenger. He is here himself, in the command tent. He says that it is urgent."

"In that case you may phrase it in a more diplomatic fashion for him," Thranduil said. "But I will not see him before tonight."

"As you wish." Farothlin hesitated, then said, "I merely think it curious that you choose to deal harshly with him now, and not before."

Thranduil paused in the act of pulling on his gloves. "I raised you as a Prince of the Sindar, not one of the Noldor's serpent-tongued courtiers. If you have something to say to me then say it openly."

"I will, my lord. I believe you were too lenient in your treatment of him."

"How so?" Thranduil flexed his fingers, checking the gloves' fit against his hands.

"He attacked Legolas! He admitted it! If not for him Legolas never would have fallen into the Corsairs' trap. That Man betrayed Legolas to his death, and you let him live!"

"'That Man' is the King of this country," Thranduil said. "Eryn Lasgalen cannot afford a war with Gondor, regardless of how justified the cause."

"I have not known you to practice discretion over justice, my lord."

"No?" Thranduil smiled thinly. "How about mercy?" He slid a leather armguard over his left forearm and pulled the lacings tight. "In any case that is not why I spared him. You heard what he said in the garden; you must have heard what I said also."

"Yes," Farothlin said sullenly. "But, Father, it makes no sense! Legolas may have believed in him, but Legolas was _wrong_. He is dying because of that mistake. Elessar himself confessed that the evil was in his own heart. By the word of your own agents we know that the Queen rules in his stead and the Council has turned against him – why can we not take the vengeance that is our due?"

"And do what?" Thranduil said. "Kill him?" He took his cloak from the back of a chair and fastened it over his shoulders.

"Think of what you propose. Legolas escaped Elessar's attack and survived the Corsair's assault – and he did not fade. He returned from that, and his first act was to summon Elessar to Minas Tirith. What happened then I do not know, but he began to fade – only to return _again_ of his own will to aid Elessar in defeating the Corsair captain. Has any legend ever told of one who returned _twice _to the side of the friend who betrayed him? Even the love of Beleg Strongbow was not as great as that. And you would have me kill the one he holds so dear, without knowing what effect that might have on him?"1

Farothlin looked stricken. "No," he said. "But sire . . . Elessar cannot escape entirely. He must suffer some punishment for what he has done!"

"I do not doubt that he does," Thranduil said. "And he will continue to do so, for a long time to come."

He crossed to the armory stand and lifted down his long sword in its scabbard. "Summon the guards," he said, and buckled the sword about his waist. "I have work to do."

*~*~*

On a balcony of the citadel far removed from the turmoil of the Pelennor Fields a slender figure stood looking over the city. The white stone of Minas Tirith glowed in the afternoon sun, but the curve of the citadel wall cast this portion in shadow.

Lothíriel leaned upon the stone of the balcony's rail and breathed deep of the cool spring air. Behind her were the rooms that she had taken with her nurse and maidservants, empty now as they had gone down to the mid-day meal in the great hall. Adjacent to her new quarters were the Steward's chambers, where Éowyn lay sleeping with the infant Finduilas cradled safely next to her bed.

Lady Éowyn had kindly invited her to share these rooms, as if she had known how the great emptiness of the bed that she had shared with Éomer threatened to overwhelm her. All of them, Éowyn and Faramir and Queen Undómiel, had been very kind. In the aftermath of the battle she had buried herself in the work of caring for the new mother and baby and found she could forget, sometimes, for whole minutes at a time.

But then she would be doing something simple: changing Finduilas' clout or holding her to burp after feeding; and without warning the grief would rise like a tide to wash over her. She held Faramir's perfect little girl in her arms and remembered when she had teased her father that soon he would have a grandchild of his own to dangle upon his knee.

It had been the day that her marriage date was announced. Imrahil had looked over his book at her, his eyebrows raised in the half-solemn, half-humorous way he had, and said, "I may have words with that bridegroom of yours. You are not so old yet, child, that you are ready to have a baby of your own. And I am not so old as to forget what a squirming nuisance most infants are, or to wish one upon you."

And that very afternoon she had found him sitting cross-legged in the laundry yard, dangling a seashell on a length of string to the delight of the laundress' two-month-old son.

The ache closed vise-like over her heart, and she felt tears prick her eyes. She grieved for her father's death, but even more than that she simply missed him. She kept thinking, _when I see him next I'll tell him_ – only to draw up short at the fresh realization that he was gone.

He was gone. The sun shone over the city, but here in the citadel's shadow the air was cold. She hugged herself, chafing her hands over her arms. Father would say that she was being foolish. If she was cold she should simply go inside to where it was warm. If she was tired she should rest. If she was hungry and lonely and sad then she should go down to the great hall where there was company and food to be had.

She could almost hear his voice in her mind, so exasperatingly logical that she wanted to shake him, to stamp her foot in temper and say aloud, "Can you not understand? I do not miss company: I miss my family. I miss my husband. I miss _you_. I do not want sleep or food or warmth: I want my own bed, my own kitchen. Oh I know you would say that I am a silly girl, but I do not care. I miss you so much, and all I want is to go _home_ . . ."

A footstep fell behind her. She turned, and saw Éomer standing in the balcony's open doorway.

He looked as bone-weary as she felt. His clothes and skin were gritty with dust, and long strands of his hair clung to his sweat-streaked brow. But he gazed at her as a thirsty man drinking deep from a well, and his eyes were warm and gentle and kind.

"Faramir told me," he said. "I'm sorry."

She started to speak, but her voice choked off in her throat. He opened his arms, and she flew to him, and buried her face in his shoulder. His tunic smelled comfortingly of dirt and horses and grass, and her sobs were muffled against the cloth. He hugged her close, and then he simply held her while the sun moved in its slow arc across the sky and the afternoon shadows lengthened.

* * *

1 Beleg Strongbow: An Elf of the Silmarillion. Friend of Turin, a mortal, whom he rescued from captivity and who later slew him in error.


	45. Thranduil Unleashed

And if you wrong us, do we not revenge?

– William Shakespeare, _The Merchant of Venice_

Chapter 44: Thranduil Unleashed

Amdir was sweating. His palms and underneath his arms itched maddeningly as he stood rigid upon the field with the other Corsairs, not daring to move.

In the days since their defeat and capture rumors had been rife throughout the Corsairs' camp, speculation running wild as to their eventual fate. The Captain was dead and there was no one left to bargain for their release, no one to negotiate with Gondor or the Elves. That morning the King of the horsemen had returned with the armies of Gondor and Rohan and a tale of victory over the Corsairs left in Umbar. They had no leader and no homeland now. They were completely at their captors' mercy.

The most commonly agreed upon theory was that they would be enslaved, either here in Gondor or else sold to the Rohirrim or the Haradrim. But some said that they were to be executed, and others whispered late in the night of the Elves, stories of unspeakable immortal rituals and mortal blood.

Amdir tried not to listen to those tales. He had led the force that captured the Gondorians' Elf, after all, and he had seen that same Elf bound upon the Captain's bed in the ship. They were formidable fighters, it was true, but they were not invincible. In fact the Elf had entirely lost any ability to fight and had been near death after only one night with the Captain. He had told that story again just last evening. As always it elicited roars of laughter from his comrades, and bawdy comments about the Captain's virility.

"Truly," Amdir had said when the laughter died down. "One quick tumble and they're as weak as a newborn kitten. I tell you, I've bedded twelve-year-old girls with more stamina than that! At least _they _usually last a few days." More laughter, and he finished by saying, "Give us a couple of hours alone with each of 'em –"

"Or a couple of minutes, in your case," Dashun interjected, to shouts of laughter from the others. Amdir ignored him.

"You won't need a sword –"

"– except one," sniggered Raflo.

"– and we'll have their whole pointed-eared army at our feet in no time."

But this afternoon the Elven soldiers had moved into the camp, separating them into groups of ten or twenty, and the bravado and jokes of the previous night seemed far away, as if they had been told by a different person, in another lifetime. As the Elves surrounded them, each one cold and beautiful and radiating an aura of dangerously controlled power, Amdir feared the worst.

Officers were moving among the foot soldiers, speaking to each group of Corsairs in turn. Amdir watched, his heart booming irregularly in his ears, as a black-haired Elf approached them. He had a narrow, high-cheekboned face and piercing grey eyes. He wore a long blue cloak fastened by a pin in the shape of an oak leaf at his shoulder.

"I am Captain Farothlin," he said. "I am here to offer you a chance to live."

Amdir's breath caught. All around him the Corsairs stiffened in frightened attention. The Elf raked them with a cool gaze. "We seek four," he said. "Hamil son of Landrin. Bathrim son of Bartil. Fidrund son of Ithram. And Amdir son of Cuthril. Give them to us and we will not harm you."

Amdir's heart seemed to stop, then start again, racing wildly. He recognized Hamil's name – he had been there on the ship in Umbar, in the battle in the Captain's quarters. _Oh gods . . ._

"What do you want with them?" Dashun spoke from the other side of the little group, trying for defiance but mostly sounding scared.

"They committed a crime against a citizen of Eryn Lasgalen," the Elf said. "They will be brought to justice."

"Elf justice," sneered Dashun. "You think we'd hand our own men over to Eru-knows-what you'll do to them? Ain't no Man in the world deserves that."

Amdir felt weak with relief and gratitude. He could have hugged his old friend then and there.

But the others in the group were looking uncertain. The Elf surveyed them. "We will not speak here of what you deserve," he said. "My orders are to spare you in exchange for the Men that I have named. Your compatriots have already given us six others, so the matter of whether you would hand them over is moot. We both know that you will."

Silence fell. A few of the Corsairs fidgeted, stealing glances at each other and at Amdir. The Elf stood motionless, inhumanly still as no mortal could ever be, watching them.

A full minute passed, then another. Finally Dashun burst out, "It don't matter! They ain't here anyhow!"

The Elf raised one eyebrow. "Perhaps you have heard of the Elven ability to see into another's mind," he said. "There are ways to learn the most deeply kept secrets, although I am told the process is quite painful for mortals. Excruciating, even." He cast a long, slow gaze over them, as if assessing the possibilities. For an instant his eyes met Amdir's, seeming to pierce straight through him. Amdir looked down, his mouth dry.

"But I have no desire to touch any of you, mentally or otherwise," the Elf said. "The process would be far too slow in any case. My preference is to shoot you all now."

In a single motion the Elves around them drew arrows from their quivers and set them to their bows. Sweat was pouring down Amdir's face, stinging his eyes. Dashun looked around wildly.

"You can't do this!"

"I assure you that I can," the Elf said. "My King's order was for leniency in exchange for the criminals I have named. If you will not accept our bargain then . . ." he shrugged.

Dashun licked his lips. Before he could speak another Corsair, a youth with tousled brown hair, raised his hand. "Um," he faltered as the Elf looked at him, "say that we do – we know where they are. If we tell you will you let us go?"

"No," the Elf said. "You will be handed over to the people of Gondor. They will dispose of you as they see fit."

There was a general stirring among the Corsairs. Amdir knew that all jokes aside there was not one of them who would not rather be in the custody of Gondor than the alien, frightening power of the Elves. Men could be reasoned with, tricked or bought. Men made mistakes.

"Wait," Dashun said. "How do you even know you've got the right ones? Whoever gave you those names could be lying, telling you his enemy's name to protect his friend."

The Elf stared at him for a long moment. Then without looking away or changing expression he said, "Prepare to fire."

The Elves raised their bows. Several of the Corsairs screamed and crouched down, covering their heads with their arms. Amdir stood rooted to the spot, staring at the three-inch long iron tip of an arrow leveled between his eyes by a soldier not five feet away.

"Wait!" Dashun cried. "Wait! Amdir's there! He's over there!" And all around Amdir the other Corsairs were shouting and pushing to get away from him, hands were shoving him forward.

Two of the Elves strode forward to seize Amdir's upper arms. They nearly lifted him off his feet as they dragged him from the group and deposited him before their captain. The other soldiers remained motionless, holding their draw upon the Corsairs.

"No!" Amdir shouted. "It wasn't me! They're lying! You don't want me – you want him!" He jerked his chin toward Dashun.

The Elf captain ignored him. "Where are the other three?" he asked Dashun.

Dashun looked at the ground. A dull flush was spreading across his weathered face. "They aren't here," he muttered. "I heard that Fidrund was killed in the battle. I don't know where the others are."

"That's right," one of the other Corsairs said. "Fidrund was killed. I saw him fall." Others were nodding in agreement.

The Elf studied them for what seemed a long time. Dashun was trembling visibly before he finally spoke. "Stand down."

The soldiers lowered their bows. The Elf captain turned away and Amdir's guards followed, pulling Amdir along with them.

"No, wait!" he said. He tried to struggle, but they held him as in a vice. "I'm telling you, you have the wrong man! I never laid a finger on your Elf!" They passed a knot of Elves standing on the field, and Amdir glimpsed a Man in their midst: Galemir, who had been the Captain's second in command.

"Galemir, you bastard!" he shouted. The Elves turned to look at him. Galemir's normally florid face blanched a splotchy red and white. "You bastard, you gave them my name! You son of a whore!"

The Elf captain whirled to face him. "Be silent," he said. "He treated with us in good faith for the benefit of his people. _You _were willing to let your companions die rather than surrender yourself to us. You have no right to judge his honor."

They continued across the field, the Elves striding along so fast now that Amdir was hard-pressed to keep pace between his guards. At the edge of the Corsairs' camp a fleet-footed Elf caught them up.

"Prince Farothlin," he said, and bowed with one hand over his heart. "I bring word from Prince Tatharin. He has Hamil son of Landrin and Bathrim son of Bartil. Two remain at large, and of those Fidrund son of Ithram is reported to have been killed in the invasion of the city."

"Tell Tatharin that I can confirm Fidrund's death," Amdir's captain said. "I have the last one here. How did he get two of them at once?"

"Lord Tatharin gathered fifty of the Men together and told them that he would flay them alive if they did not surrender the criminals. The Corsairs responded quickly."

"Tatharin said that?" Farothlin laughed. "I would not have thought he had the imagination. 'Flay them alive . . .' I shall have to remember that."

"He made a very convincing threat," the Elf said. "He had a knife at one Man's throat."

"He did not actually hurt him!" Farothlin said.

"No, lord. The Man suffered some damage to his tunic when they cut it off him, nothing more. Prince Legolas and Prince Tatharin were –"

"I know what they were," Farothlin said. "But see to it that that Man receives a new tunic, just the same. We deal in justice now, not vengeance."

He motioned to Amdir's guards. They jerked Amdir forward, through a narrow corridor between the long rows of Elven tents that ringed the Corsairs'. He stumbled after them, panting, his feet slipping in the churned mud of the path. Then the passage opened, and they threw him down on a patch of grass.

Amdir got to his feet slowly, rubbing his knee. He was in a large clearing between the Elven tents. It was more or less circular, about fifty feet at its widest diameter. Its ground was dotted with humps of scrub grass between slicks of mud. Elven soldiers ringed its perimeter, long shields fixed in an interlocking wall. In the middle of the clearing, as far away from the soldiers as they could get, a group of Corsairs huddled close together. There were eight of them.

Amdir's heart sank. _Oh gods,_ he thought as he trailed across the uneven ground to join them. _This is not good._

*~*~*

"Nine in all, my lord," Sídhan reported.

Thranduil was checking the fit of the dagger in his boot. He did not look up. "The tenth?"

"Dead. Killed in the invasion of the city."

"Confirmed?"

"Three separate groups of Corsairs have sworn that he fell in the battle for the city wall. One said he saw the Captain of the Guard stab him through the chest."

"Orc filth." Thranduil swore mildly, without heat. He straightened up and drew his sword. He hefted it, testing the balance, and then slid it smoothly back into its scabbard. Satisfied, he turned on his heel and strode from the tent, Sídhan following in his wake.

Farothlin, Ellomë and Tatharin were waiting for them outside. Legolas' brothers fell in behind their father, making a formidable procession as they crossed the command circle and headed down the wide avenue to the clearing that Thranduil had ordered carved out beside the Corsairs' camp.

Soldiers lined the avenue, standing to rigid attention as the royal family passed. Beyond them the field was filled with a general movement as Elves converged on the clearing, their faces set with grim purpose. The people had loved their youngest Prince.

A lieutenant saluted as they approached. "All is ready, Your Majesty. The arena is secure."

"Good," Thranduil said. "Arm the Corsairs."

*~*~*

Amdir turned the sword over in his hands. It was light and perfectly balanced, honed to a razor edge that gleamed in the sun. He felt worse than ever.

Three of the soldiers had laid a selection of weapons before them: swords, spears, knives and shields. They left them there on the ground and returned to the silent ranks of Elves beyond the locked shields around the clearing. No one spoke, but the intention was clear.

The weapons were beautifully made: the knives and swords inlaid with a filigree design of leaves around their hilt and down their blades, the spears true and the shields light and strong. They were far better quality than anything Amdir had seen in the motley collection of weaponry that the Corsairs had collected in Harad. His companions examined them with wonder, and each took as many as he could carry. But Amdir saw the trepidation as they looked at each other, and his guts clenched in fear.

An opening formed between the shields at the far end of the clearing. A tall Elf stepped into the circle, and the wall closed again behind him. He walked forward into the field, his hair gleaming gold in the sunlight. There was no sign, no signal that Amdir could tell, but the surrounding crowd went silent.

Amdir shivered. He could feel the Elves all around him, watching in their thousands, but the murmur of voices had ceased as completely as if he had gone deaf. Even the birdsong had stopped. Sweat trickled down his back. He felt suffocated, pressed down by the weight of silence. A breeze lifted the hair from his forehead, but he could hardly breathe.

"Men of Umbar," the tall Elf said. His deep voice carried as though the field were an amphitheatre. Amdir gulped. There was a sour taste in his mouth.

"I am Thranduil. You stand here today guilty of the abduction and assault of a citizen of Eryn Lasgalen with the intention of causing his death. The penalty for your crime is death."

"We didn't . . ." Amdir tried to say, but his voice was a mere croak, soundless in his throat.

Others of the Corsairs did better. "You've no proof!" Hamil shouted. He looked fully as pale as Amdir felt and his voice shook, but he spoke defiantly. "There's been no trial! We demand a trial – a fair trial by Men, not Elves!"

"We do not waste time in trials when the guilty are already known," the Elf – Thranduil – said. "You were named by the leader of your company, and your identities were confirmed by witnesses to the attack, and again by your companions."

Amdir found his voice. Abandoning all pretenses he shouted, "The Captain forced us to do it! He ordered us – he would have killed us otherwise! He did it all – it wasn't us!"

"And you deemed it better to aid in torture than to risk yourselves to stop it," Thranduil said. "We do not acknowledge that receiving an order eliminates your ability to think for yourselves, nor your responsibility for your actions. However –" he lifted a hand, and the Corsairs' protest died before it was uttered.

"_However,_ in recognition of your circumstances, this concession is made in your sentence. It is our custom that a warrior does not go to death unarmed. By your crimes you have forfeited that right, but . . . you may defend yourselves. If you are victorious you will be freed to go as you will, and no one will touch you or hunt you for the length of one year from this day. I swear it."

"Victorious . . ." Hamil licked his lips. Amdir's attention had been caught by the word _hunt_ in the Elf's statement. He rather wanted clarification on that point. But Hamil was looking around at the soldiers that ringed the clearing.

"You mean that we have to fight all of them?"

"No," the Elf said. He walked forward until he stood only feet from them. He wore a long sword at his hip, but no other weapons that Amdir could see. He was clad in a simple tunic, leggings and boots that accented his powerful frame. His rich golden hair was braided back from his face, and there was something about him that struck Amdir as familiar.

Then he smiled, and the predatory gleam of his eyes sent a thrill of horrified recognition through Amdir. His eyes, his stance, the controlled fury in every line of his body – Amdir had seen them all before, when the Elf Prince had stood barefoot and bleeding in the Captain's cabin and sworn to kill them all. He knew with sudden, unshakeable certainty: the Elf that they had tied beaten and helpless upon the Captain's bed had been this one's son. And his heart sank to the very depths of his being.

"You have to fight _me_," Thranduil said.

For a long moment no one moved. Amdir hardly dared to breathe.

Then Hamil spoke. "Charge him," he whispered. "All at once, together – it's our only chance. There's only one of him."

"No!" Amdir said. His heart was beating again in ragged, frantic leaps. "No – don't fight! Don't fight and they won't hurt us. I heard them talking – two of the Elves – they said they were after justice, not vengeance. I heard them."

Something thumped to the ground. Bathrim had dropped his sword and was running across the clearing, fleeing toward the soldiers that stood motionless around the edge of the field.

Thranduil moved so fast that Amdir almost missed it. He bent and straightened in an instant, and a heartbeat later Bathrim jerked in mid-stride and skidded headlong in the mud, an Elven dagger protruding from his back.

Amdir stared. When he finally dragged his gaze back to the Elf he found him standing calmly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"We seek justice," Thranduil said. "But at this moment I will take vengeance if I can get it."

*~*~*

Aragorn paced the confines of the command tent with swift strides, his arms locked across his chest and muscles of his neck and back rigid. His thoughts were awhirl with tension and anxiety. Legolas had to be here, somewhere in the innermost circle of the Elven camp, but Aragorn had seen no sign of him. Upon his arrival the sentries had escorted him to this spacious, sparsely furnished tent to wait, giving him no opportunity to explore the surrounding camp.

Thranduil's eldest son Sídhan, the commander of Mirkwood's army, had greeted him politely but said nothing of Legolas' health or whereabouts. Aragorn's inquiries about him were met with smooth silence until finally he abandoned the attempt to learn anything that way and asked instead to speak with the Elvenking.

This had caused Sídhan to consult with another of Legolas' brothers, who left the tent and returned some time later with the message that Thranduil was otherwise engaged, but would see Aragorn that evening at eight o'clock. Then the brothers had exited, leaving Aragorn in the company of his guards.

The message was clear: he could leave or he could wait, but he would learn nothing more until the hour appointed. Aragorn was left with the inescapable impression of exactly how high mortal kingship ranked in the hierarchy of Mirkwood. The Council of Gondor might be tearing itself apart arguing his status, Arwen and Faramir might agonize over whether to restore him to the throne, but here in this empty tent Elessar would sit with or without the crown. It would have been amusing if he were not so worried about Legolas.

So Aragorn waited. He had come this far to see his friend and he would not leave without some assurance that he was well. Whatever terrors dwelled in Legolas' mind, he had to realize that his sacrifice was not in vain. He had saved Gondor. He had saved them all. If only Aragorn could see him, somehow he would pierce the shadow over Legolas and make him understand.

Time dragged on and the tent grew hot in the afternoon sun. He could hear movement and voices outside: it sounded as if the Elves were working together on a project of massive scale. When he went to the tent entrance he saw warriors hurrying through the camp, intent on some unknown purpose. In the distance flags were lowered and fabric billowed and collapsed: they were striking the tents in a large area adjacent to the Corsair camp.

The guards stationed outside his tent were watching him. They were Avari, Elves of the deep forests. Their skin was a flawless, shining black, and their hair fell in tight ringlets down their backs. Polished wooden beads were strung through their hair, and they wore carved bands on their wrists and upper arms.

"Do you wish an escort back to the city, King Elessar?" one asked. His liquid accent softened the sibilants, so that Aragorn's name sounded like _Elehhar_.

"No," Aragorn said. "Thank you. What are they doing over there?" He nodded toward the Corsair camp, where most of the activity was focused.

"I cannot say," the guard replied, and Aragorn was certain that he meant _will not._ The subject was off limits, but Aragorn was worried and frustrated, and not in the mood to pay heed to arbitrary restrictions.

"I would like a closer look."

"That cannot be. King Thranduil has ordered that no mortal is to approach the _parth_ _baudh._"

_Parth_ _baudh_ – the field of judgment. A suspicion was growing in Aragorn's mind, but he let it pass for the moment.

"Then I wish to speak to Prince Legolas."

"Impossible, King Elessar." _Impohhable, King Elehhar._ "The King will grant you an audience when he returns."

"_Why_ is it impossible?" Aragorn demanded. "He isn't a prisoner here, is he?"

The guard did not dignify that with a response. Aragorn sighed.

He recalled something that Legolas had once told him: of all the myriad tribes of the Moriquendi1 that Oropher had banded together in Mirkwood, the Avari had been the most suspicious of the Sindarin newcomers; and the most fiercely loyal once Thranduil and his father had earned their trust. They now formed the majority of the Elvenking's elite guard corps.

Aragorn knew that there was no hope of countermanding their King's orders or charming them into leniency. He also knew better than to vent his frustrations on soldiers who were, after all, only doing as their duty required. But the situation was infuriating. Legolas was _here_, curse it, and Aragorn could do _nothing_.

"Then when the Elvenking returns please explain to him that I am _trying_ to save his son's life," he said, hearing the bitterness in his voice and not caring. "If it is not an _inconvenience_, that is."

He returned to the tent. Nervous tension kept him on his feet, pacing as the afternoon waned and the sun slipped up the walls and finally faded all together. They had left him a tall flask of water and a second of wine, and a platter of way-bread upon the table. It was Mirkwood traveling cake, a dense concentration of dried fruit and nuts, neither as light nor as sustaining as the lembas of Lothlórien. But it served its purpose well enough. Aragorn gnawed a piece absently as he circled the room, examining the weapons displayed upon the walls and the maps of parchment in their leather bindings.

Twice he attempted to mentally reach Legolas. He forced himself to sit and tried to clear his mind, tried to reach inside himself to the center, to the steadfast quiet presence that had been a part of him for almost as long as he could remember. He failed. Where before he had felt certainty, strength and friendship there was now nothing. It was as if a hole had been cut inside him, and the very foundation of his being trembled on the brink. It drove him to his feet again, set him pacing as if he could escape the void that ached within him.

The sun had gone entirely when he halted and stood still, listening. A new sound was rising from the field outside: a martial drumbeat that throbbed within his chest and quickened his heart. Outside the tent he found his guards standing to attention, looking south to where a vast movement was stirring across the field.

Straining to see in the fading light Aragorn became aware of a new sound, a rising swell of voices upon the drumbeat march. The Elves were singing.

_Moonlight shines and the field mice cower,_

_The hawk is swooping to strike._

_Tall beech quake and the red deer_ _run,_

_The tiger stalks the night._

No solemn ballad for the fallen, this: it was a wild, soaring melody, a warrior's song of triumph, death and glory.

_Proud hawk cries and the tiger roars,_

_Sing ye lords of claw and might._

_Brothers of blades, answer their call,_

_We are hunters of the night._

The crowd within the circle of tents was parting, drawing back from the path that led to the Corsair camp. Aragorn moved out into the clearing, craning his neck to see. Thranduil was striding up the avenue, his cloak and hair streaming in his wake. His long sword hung at his waist, his hand upon its grip, and his face was fierce and fell. He looked neither left nor right as the song swelled around them.

_Talons grip and fangs destroy,_

_Blood drips from the knife._

_Our King has come with vengeance paid,_

_Justice reigns this night!_

"King Thranduil!" Aragorn called as the Elvenking passed. "Thranduil!"

His guards interceded, holding him back as he pushed forward. Without turning his head or breaking stride Thranduil pointed in his direction. "Release him," he ordered. "Elessar, with me."

He had already vanished inside a tent on the other side of the clearing by the time Aragorn shook free of his guards and followed.

He found Thranduil in what were clearly his personal quarters. A healer stood nearby, frowning as he watched his King. Three servants assisted Thranduil as he stripped off his cloak and gear. One drew the sword from its scabbard, and Aragorn saw the blood still wet upon its blade. Thranduil's face and clothes were flecked red-brown and the ends of his hair were dried in long spikes over his shoulders.

Aragorn stared. "I was going to offer them mercy . . ."

Thranduil looked around. "What was that, Elessar?"

"The Corsairs, my lord," Aragorn said. "I told the Council that we should offer them the chance to renounce violence, to live and work integrated with our people under Gondor's rule. I told them that it was our best hope of peace."

"Hmm." Thranduil looked thoughtful. "It is an interesting idea. There are nine fewer Corsairs now than there were an hour ago, but you are welcome to the rest of them."

He saw Aragorn's expression and laughed. "What was your Council's reaction to your plan?"

"They think me mad," Aragorn admitted.

"Unsurprising," Thranduil said. He spread his arms, allowing a servant to undo the lacings of his tunic. "It is a rare Man – or Elf – who can think of forgiveness when he is still smarting from his enemy's blow. What you propose has risks . . . but if it fails you will be no worse off than if you left them to brood on their defeat in exile. It may work."

"I had thought as much," Aragorn said. "But now . . ."

Thranduil raised his eyebrows questioningly. Aragorn drew breath. "After today," he said, careful to keep the accusation from his voice, "what cause have they to believe us? We might speak of peace, but they have seen their comrades taken from their midst and executed. Why should they trust us?"

"First," Thranduil said, "the great majority of them are alive and hale, and have been told that their fate is in your hands, not ours. Second, those nine were sentenced for crimes against Eryn Lasgalen, not Gondor. And third –" he winced as the servant drew off his tunic, revealing a deep gash in the muscle of his left shoulder. "Third – they were not executed as you think of the word. They were given the means to defend themselves."

"Defend themselves," Aragorn repeated. "Against an Elven warrior with six thousand years of battle experience." He held the King's gaze. "They were prisoners of war."

"_Legolas_ was a prisoner of war!" Thranduil snapped. He waved off the servants and crossed the room to where a tub of water steamed, partially concealed by a screen. He bent and splashed the water over his arms and chest with his right hand.

"What would _your _people do to them if given the chance?"

Aragorn sighed. "Opinion is mixed. Some would hang them. Others would have them drawn and quartered."

"Drawn and quartered?" Thranduil straightened, his hair dripping. "I am not familiar with that term."

"It means that they would tie each of the Corsairs' arms and legs to a different horse, and send the horses running in four different directions. Once dislocated . . ." Aragorn hesitated, wishing he had not begun this description. " . . . the limbs and the head would be chopped from the body with an axe."

Thranduil stared at him. "Elbereth," he said finally. "That is mortal justice? And to think how Thorin wailed at being confined in my cellar." He shook his head. "Perhaps I should have given the criminals to you after all."

"It is not _my _idea of justice," Aragorn said. "Your Majesty, I am not arguing for forgiveness of the Men who attacked Legolas. But at the very least a trial –"

"Yes, yes, _yes_," Thranduil said impatiently. He pushed his hair back from his face and secured it with a leather thong. "I think sometimes that Men must have some ancestral link to the Noldor. You both will spend an age _talking _when action is required. The guilty were found, their guilt was proven, and they were dispatched. Justice is _done_, and we may turn our attention to the living."

"If Men are linked to the Noldor, then perhaps the Sindar are related to the Dwarves," Aragorn shot back. "For you are both stubborn and impatient, and ignore slower paths that might serve you better."

Everything inside the tent stopped. The servants froze in mid-step, linens and garments and medicines still in their hands. Thranduil stood motionless, his eyes fixed on Aragorn and the water trickling down his face and chest. Aragorn had time to think that, of all the Elves to whom he could have made that comment, and of all the comments he could have made to Thranduil, he had chosen a particularly bad combination.

Then Thranduil laughed. Pointing at Aragorn he said, "That is a King. That is a King who speaks his mind; whose strength is in himself, not his crown. Legolas knew you truly, son of Arathorn."

The tension broke. Aragorn could breathe again. The servants left quickly, bowing to their King as they exited. Thranduil sat down and motioned the healer forward. "There are few in this world who would address me so when the _agar baudh_ is upon me. I have never known a mortal to have the courage."

_Agar baudh – blood judgment,_ Aragorn thought. What _was _this?

"It was not my intention to offend," he said.

"Yes it was," Thranduil said carelessly. "But I do not choose to be offended. Words are only words, and you spoke in passion for what you believed to be right. That is an admirable thing."

He hissed as the healer probed his wounded shoulder. "There is more that you should know, King Elessar. It was not only justice that was served this day. Legolas swore an oath to those Men in Umbar. I have fulfilled it."

There was a pause. "Was that not an oath for Legolas to fulfill, my lord?" Aragorn said carefully.

"When an Elf falls with a promise unpaid, his kin take on the obligation," Thranduil said. "If his kin are unable to finish it, then it falls to his King." He bared his teeth in a feral grin, almost a grimace. "I am unwilling to give any more of my sons to these Corsairs."

"Is Legolas no better, then?" Aragorn asked. His heart was thumping. "Can he not . . .?"

"There were nine of them, Elessar," Thranduil said. "You have seen Legolas. Would _you _risk it?"

"I came here _to _see Legolas," Aragorn said. "I want to help."

"Ah. Thank you, but no. He is safe with us."

"Then why did he not go into that arena today?" Aragorn demanded. "It's been three days since he awoke. An Elf's healing abilities –"

"It is _because _he is an Elf that he cannot heal, as you well know," Thranduil said. "I will not discuss it further."

"I understand if he will not see me," Aragorn said. "If he refuses then I will go. But at least give him the choice! Let me _try _to help him!"

"He has had enough of your 'help.'" Thranduil said. "Your touch would only cause him pain. After everything that you have done –"

"I _know _what I have done! But what chance have I of making it right if you will not even let me see him?" Aragorn spread his hands before him. "You know what power is in the line of Kings. If there is any hope of healing Legolas in Middle-earth it is in me. You know this."

Thranduil seemed to waver. Aragorn held his breath, hope rising in his chest. Then Thranduil shook his head.

"I will not gamble my son's life. Legolas will sail from these shores and find his healing in Aman. There is no need for him to risk your touch, or submit to your power."

Frustration choked Aragorn's throat. _He was so close! Legolas was here, somewhere, hurting and he could not reach him._ He wanted to hit something. He was perilously close to tears. "If you would just _listen –_"

"I have listened," Thranduil said. "Now hear me. We will decamp tomorrow –"

"Adar."

The soft word brought Thranduil to his feet, knocking aside the healer's hand. Both Aragorn and the Elvenking wheeled about to face a side door, where the partition had been drawn aside. Legolas stood there, pale and thin in a white tunic and trousers, his hair loose about his shoulders.

"I will see King Elessar," Legolas said.

Aragorn's heart leapt. He could not help smiling, though he tried to keep the triumph off his face. Thranduil looked thunderstruck.

"My son," he said. "You need not do this."

Legolas did not seem to hear. He looked at Aragorn. "What service do you require, my lord?"

Aragorn's joy vanished as quickly as it had come. A lead weight seemed to drop into his stomach. For a dreadful moment he feared that Legolas was going to present himself again as he had in Gimli's room.

"Nothing," he said. "You are not required to do anything, Legolas. I only . . . if you agree, I would like to help you. To heal. I want to help you heal."

Legolas looked at him. His face was expressionless, his eyes fathoms deep and dark. Aragorn steeled himself to meet them, to see the shadow there and to look unflinching into the depths of his friend's pain.

Silence stretched between them. The lamps guttered as a breeze swept through the tent from the open partition.

"He would have to touch you," Thranduil said at last. "The healing he speaks of can only come through his hands."

"I would do nothing without your permission," Aragorn said swiftly. "I swear to you, Legolas; I will not hurt you." But too late: he had already seen the flicker of fear cross Legolas' face.

"It is not necessary," Thranduil said. "Elrond is in Aman, and the Valar offer healing of their own. Your oath is paid. There is nothing for you here. We can leave tomorrow for the Havens."

Still Legolas said nothing. A cold hand seemed to grasp Aragorn's heart at Thranduil's words. He reminded himself forcefully that either way Legolas was bound to sail. The most that he could hope for was to ease his friend's pain and to ensure he lived to see the Undying Lands. No Elf could continue in Middle-earth after what Legolas had suffered. He knew that. But he could not help but think: _He'll leave. He'll leave and I'll never see him again. Valar, he saved my life and my soul and my sanity and I cannot bear to lose him!_

With an effort he spoke. "What do you want, Legolas?"

Dark eyes turned from him to Thranduil and back again. Then Legolas drew a shuddering breath. "Imrahil and his Knights died in the battle."

Aragorn frowned, and traded a puzzled look with Thranduil. "Yes."

"You will take them to Dol Amroth for burial."

"Yes."

Legolas closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around himself as if cold.

"I will go to Dol Amroth."

* * *

1 Moriquendi: "Elves of the Darkness," who never saw the light of the Two Trees of Valinor. The Avari are a part of the Moriquendi family who refused the Valar's call to cross the sea to Valinor.

l

A/N: The victory song of the Wood-elves is my own composition and doubtless sounds better in the Silvan tongue.

I know that Tolkien never envisioned the Avari as I have described them here. But to my knowledge he never explicitly said that all Elves were of Scandinavian descent either. I hope that he would not take my liberties amiss.


	46. The Last Resort

**A/N:** This chapter delves a bit into philosophy about the nature of the Elven soul, the connection between soul, mind and body, and the nature of rape in relation to that connection. I am building my own house here, but the foundation is as true to canon as I can make it.

"When you ain't got nothing,

you got nothing to lose."

– Bob Dylan

Chapter 45: The Last Resort

Drums beat through the cool night air: a primitive, wild rhythm that pulsed bone-deep and hard. In Minas Tirith the very stones of the city seemed to vibrate with their power, like nothing Gondor had ever heard. Outside the city wall the Corsair prisoners kept to their tents, not daring to stir. In the Pelennor fields the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan tapped their feet to the primal beat and looked south to the bonfires that leapt up from the Elven camp, a conflagration that illuminated half the Pelennor and raised an orange glow to the sky.

The Mirkwood Elves were celebrating.

Arwen kept her head down as she picked her way along the muddy path, following her Silvan guide through the narrow back-ways between the tents. She was close enough now to make out the melody played by flute and lyre above the pounding beat of the drums, and caught snatches of the song lyric to which the Silvan, Sindarin and Avari Elves danced. She smiled.

As a child she had been fascinated on the rare occasions that Lord Elrond's family had visited Greenwood, and after her nurse had fallen asleep she would creep down to watch the welcome festivities. In those days the forest had been whole and the Elves had dwelled in flets and small cottages in the south, far from the mountain where Thranduil would eventually retreat to build his stronghold. They welcomed her father with a feast in the open air, and danced on a great lawn lit by silver lamps strung through the branches of the trees.

Those dances had held her spellbound. They were like nothing she had ever seen in the Hall of Fire at home. There the evenings were spent in quiet discourse, and occasionally a bard would rise to sing a song of the ancient world in stately, solemn verse. Here the Silvan Elves leapt and spun in ever expanding circles, a melee that whirled to the brink of disaster and back, scarcely checked by the commanding beat of the drum. At home her favorites had been the lays of Nimrodel and Amroth, Beleg and Túrin, Lúthien and Beren – old, familiar stories that she knew by heart and sang under her breath along with the minstrel.

But here the dances told the stories, and they were new, often invented upon the spot by dancers with nothing but their own skill to guide them. There were love stories told by maidens and their suitors who chased each other through the clearing and up into the branches of the trees. There were warrior tales, and the Avari and Silvan Elves would actually throw knives and burning torches to each other as they enacted battles that raged frighteningly close to real.

It was a warrior's dance that they did now, and she caught glimpses of the Elves as they whirled in interlocking circles a hundred strong about the great fires. The skill and danger of it thrilled her just as it had done an age ago, and her heart quickened to the pounding beat of the drums.

They reached the inner circle of tents. Arwen pulled herself back to attention as her escort spoke with the Avari who guarded the Elvenking's court. She had not worried, exactly, when Aragorn set out to speak with Thranduil. But she had been relieved to have him home again, and seen him safely asleep before she ventured forth. For reasons of his own Thranduil had seen fit to spare Aragorn, but what influence that had over his people on this night she could not guess. It was a day of judgment for the Corsairs, she knew, and the justice of the Moriquendi ranged beyond the ken of any outsider.

There seemed to be some disagreement at the entrance. Her escort motioned to her, and Arwen stepped forward into the torchlight and cast back her hood. The Avari guard's eyes widened. He bowed low, a hand over his heart. "Queen Undómiel, your presence honors us. I am Kel, son of Eia. I live to serve."

"Your service honors us," Arwen replied. Long years it had been since she had visited Mirkwood, but the ritual was unchanged.

Kel straightened, surveying her closely. "Forgive me, my lady, but where is your retinue?"

"I have none," Arwen said. "This is not a state visit. I came alone, upon a personal matter."

There was a pause as the guard's face tightened. The Avari took the hierarchy between royalty and common folk seriously, Arwen knew, and did not consider it to be lightly thrown aside. It was a cultural trait that had instilled in them intense loyalty to their leaders, and had prompted Oropher to take the title of King when binding together the tribes of Greenwood. But it did not grant much leeway for spontaneous ventures.

"There will be a feast tomorrow to honor the Elvenking and his people who came at the hour of our need," Arwen said quickly. "Tonight is a private affair."

Kel seemed unimpressed. "His Majesty is not available, my lady. We will escort you back to the city and give him your message. An audience may be arranged in the morning."

"I do not seek the King tonight. I would speak with his son, Prince Legolas."

She heard his indrawn breath at that, though the guard's expression did not change. "That cannot be, my lady. The Prince is in seclusion."

"He will see me," Arwen said.

"Far be it for us to deny the Evenstar," her escort said. "Ask him, Kel. There is no harm in that."

The Avari sighed. "No harm for you, perhaps. It will be on my head when the King learns of this." But he motioned them to follow him into the sheltered clearing.

There were seven tents arranged so that their entrances faced into the open space between them. The largest of them was brightly lit, lamplight streaming from its windows. Arwen heard the murmur of voices within as they approached. But Kel led them past to a smaller, darker tent on the other side of the clearing.

"Wait here a moment, my lady," he said and slipped inside.

It was a brief time indeed before the tent's flap opened again and Kel stepped out, looking unhappy. He was followed by a shorter, very erect Elf who Arwen recognized as Galion, Thranduil's personal valet of old. Galion's normally cheerful face was set in unaccustomedly solemn lines. "The Prince will see you, my lady."

As Arwen moved past him into the tent he spoke for her ears alone. "He has endured much for your sake, Lady. I pray you ask nothing more of him, for he cannot refuse you."

Arwen turned her head, startled, but the flap had already closed behind her. She was in the small anteroom of a private dwelling, simply furnished and lit by a single lamp. "Legolas?"

A curtain at the far end of the room drew aside. Legolas entered just far enough to allow the partition to fall closed behind him. "Queen Undómiel. Your presence honors us."

His unbound hair gleamed white-gold in the lamplight, spilling over his shoulders as he bowed. He was barefoot, clad in a simple linen tunic and trousers, and he seemed somehow thinner than she remembered. Then he straightened, and Arwen fought to hide her reaction as she saw his face.

There was pain and despair in his eyes such as she had not seen in five hundred years. She felt a horrified shock of recognition: her mother had had that same look, the darkness palpable behind her eyes, after Elladan and Elrohir had rescued her from the torment of the Orcs. Her father had given everything he had to save her, had spent the utmost limits of his strength and love to heal her, but she could find no peace in Middle-earth. She had sailed, and Arwen prayed that had been an end to her suffering.

"Legolas –" she began, and stopped as he looked at her. She swallowed. "I wanted to thank you," she said. "For bringing Aragorn back. You did everything I had hoped for, and more. I never imagined . . ." she trailed off. Anything she could say, her thanks, her regret, seemed hopelessly insignificant in the face of his pain.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Legolas shook his head. "It was none of your doing."

"It was," she said. "I sent you to him, Legolas. You were my last hope, but I never meant for you to pay such a price."

"The price was mine to pay," Legolas said. "For your sake, and his, I paid it gladly. I would do it again if it were in my power to restore Aragorn to the man he was."

"You have," Arwen said. "You showed him the way, and he has returned. He is whole again."

Legolas looked away. "Perhaps he is," he said. "Perhaps he was never the man I thought he was."

"What do you mean?" Arwen said. Legolas did not answer. His body was turned away from her, his arms wrapped tight about his chest. She could see the bruises stark upon his neck.

"Oh," she said. "Oh." She drew a slow breath, willing herself to speak calmly. "He wants to help you, Legolas. We all do. I know that he came here today –"

"Forgive me, my lady," Legolas said. "I cannot speak further of my lord's intentions."

Arwen faltered. This was all wrong, she thought. She knew that Aragorn was innocent of the crimes Dragaer had committed. She had made the decision to trust him – she _had _to trust him. But a cold weight was growing in the pit of her stomach.

"What did he say to you, Legolas?"

Legolas said nothing. She went to him and touched his arm. He flinched away, his breath growing loud and fast. Arwen hesitated and then followed, drawing him around face her. She felt him tremble.

"Answer me, please. What does he want from you?"

Legolas closed his eyes. "I do not know. He said he wished to help me to heal."

"And he does," Arwen said. A swell of relief washed through her. "He does. Will you let him?"

Legolas opened his eyes, and Arwen's breath caught again at the bleakness of his gaze. "Will you ask it of me?"

Arwen frowned. "I ask nothing more than you are willing to do, Legolas. But I cannot bear to see you like this. If there is a chance he can help you before you sail then yes, I would have it so."

"Before I sail," Legolas repeated. He made a harsh sound in his throat, whether a laugh or a sob Arwen could not tell. "Yes. And everyone – my father, Gimli, you, Aragorn – everyone wants to help me."

"Of course we do," Arwen said. "We love you."

Legolas laughed again and turned away, passing a hand over his eyes. When he next spoke his voice rasped dark and bitter, scarcely audible above the drumbeat outside.

"Let the sea love me," he said. "Let the gulls help me. Let Dol Amroth help me."

*~*~*

"Absolutely not," Thranduil said.

"Be reasonable," Farothlin said.

"Reasonable!" Thranduil strode the length of the command tent and back, scowling. His injured shoulder throbbed. "Dol Amroth has given Legolas nothing but pain. Returning there cannot help him, and may do more harm. I forbid it."

"Legolas requested it," Ellomë said.

"And I forbid it!" Thranduil snapped. "He will go to the Havens, if I have to lock him in a trunk and ship him there myself!"

His sons exchanged glances between themselves. Thranduil paced furiously, ignoring them. He had strained a tendon in his knee during the fight with the Corsairs, and it pained him with every stride. He ignored that too.

"We have spent the past three days attempting to reach Legolas," Tatharin said at last. "Now that he has finally made his preference known, is it wise to deny him?"

"He is in no state to decide anything, least of all this!" Thranduil shouted. "The sea is dangerous to him."

"It is dangerous to us all," Ellomë said.

Sídhan stepped forward. "Permission to speak, my lord."

"Of course! That is what everyone else is doing!" Thranduil said.

He regretted the flippancy almost as soon as he spoke. Sídhan merely looked at him. Thranduil crossed the room twice more, feeling his eldest son's gaze upon him. "Oh, very well," he said and threw himself down in a chair with poor grace. He waved a hand. "Permission granted, Lord Sídhan."

"Sire," Sídhan said formally. "I do not believe you called us here merely to tell us of a proposal that you dismissed out of hand. You could have led the army back to Eryn Lasgalen on the morrow with none of us aware of Legolas' request, or of your decision to deny that request. I believe you know, as we do, that Dol Amroth has meaning for him, perhaps meaning that we do not understand. You wanted us to confirm your decision because you fear that despite the danger it could be that there is greater harm in denying him this, the only thing he has asked of us since his awakening."

There was a long silence. Thranduil half lay in his chair with his feet stretched before him, frowning into middle distance. Finally he looked up.

"You believe all that do you?" he said.

"Yes, my lord."

"You do not think it merely that I felt like having a good row and shouting myself hoarse?"

Sídhan permitted himself the faintest of smiles. "No, my lord."

"Hmph." Thranduil glowered at him. "You are becoming more like your mother every day. Far too clever for your own good."

He heaved himself to his feet, mindful of his shoulder. "Very well then. Legolas wants to go to Dol Amroth, so he shall go. And I go with him."

A chorus of protest broke out as his sons started forward, all speaking at once.

"You cannot –"

"Father, you must not –"

"The danger –"

"Sire, the army needs you here."

Thranduil glared at them all. "I can, I must, and I will. The army will serve perfectly well under your command until I return. Or are my captains so dependent on their King that they cannot function a few days without him?"

Farothlin's thin face flushed. "Your Majesty, that is unfair. You know our record in the Greenwood."

"I do," Thranduil said. "That is why I leave the army and the prisoners in your care. I know that you will keep them well."

"For how long?" Sídhan said. "A few days? A week? A year? How long shall we wait, my lord? How long before we tell the people that their King is gone?"

"I will return," Thranduil said. "Legolas and I both will return within the week. We are only going –"

"To the sea," Sídhan said. His low voice was edged with urgency. "For how many millennia have you stood firm in Middle-earth? Eryn Lasgalen is the last fastness against the Valar's call – Lothlórien is nearly gone, and Imladris and Ithilien will soon follow. And now in the hour of our people's fading you would go to the very source of that call, to where they say the song of the Ainur can yet be heard in the sound of the waves. Do you think us so naïve, Father, that we would not know what that means? Or are you truly so arrogant that you believe you might go and return unscathed?"

There was a silence in the tent, as of an indrawn breath en masse. Thranduil stared at his son. "You presume much, Prince Sídhan," he said.

"I speak the truth, my lord," Sídhan replied. "What you propose is nothing less than the ending of our people in Middle-earth. It seems to me that is a decision worthy of discussion."

"The Greenwood has lost a King before and survived," Thranduil said. "You speak in dramatics, my son."

"He does not," Farothlin said. "Elrond has gone. Galadriel has gone. Celeborn has dissolved Lothlórien, and more go to the Havens every day. Our time in Middle-earth is coming to a close, and the people know it."

"That is naught but Noldor claptrap and bogey tales," Thranduil snapped. He was pacing again, massaging the back of his neck. "'Our time is at an end' – by whose order? After six millennia of war the Enemy is finally destroyed, and the wood is as strong as it ever was. _We _are strong. Why should we turn tail and flee because the Calaquendi1 cannot abide without a Ring to protect them?"

"There were Silvan folk in Lothlórien," Sídhan said quietly. "The facts remain these. Only the Elvenking still stands to hold our people against the Valar's call. And only Eryn Lasgalen still survives."

Thranduil came to a halt. He stood with head bowed for a long moment before he spoke. "Not all who behold the waves are afflicted by the sea-longing."

"And some are stricken without even that," Tatharin said. "Legolas only heard a _gull_, for pity's sake."

"Even if I _do _hear the call I need not answer," Thranduil said. "I might remain . . ."

"For how long?" Farothlin said. "A single mortal's lifetime? Twelve? Twelve hundred? And all that time our people will see you in misery, and know they hold you thus? Father, it is folly."

"Legolas is my _son_. I will not simply stand aside and let him suffer alone!"

"He will not be alone," Ellomë said. "The mortal King seems to genuinely want to help him."

Thanduil snorted. "That is the last thing Legolas needs. I'll not send him off in Elessar's company, either."

"And yet you will not kill Elessar," Farothlin said. He cast Thranduil a challenging look. "We cannot have it both ways, my lord. Elessar is either innocent or he is as guilty as the Corsairs who met their end today. Either we trust him or we do not."

"There is trust and then there is foolishness," Thranduil said sharply. "Elessar has repented of his sins, but he fell before in the face of temptation. I will not give him a second opportunity."

"We may have no choice," Ellomë murmured. "He is as bound up with Legolas now as the sea itself, and as perilous."

A chill lifted the hairs at Thranduil's nape, and he glanced uneasily at his fifth-born son. Of all the house of Oropher, only Ellomë seemed at times to have some gift of the Sight. It made Thranduil nervous.

Tatharin stepped forward. "I will go."

"As will I," Farothlin said. "Others will wish to volunteer as well."

"They might, but their families may wish otherwise," Sídhan said. "And I can ill afford to lose two of my best captains . . . or my brothers."

"No," Thranduil said. "I have lost one son to the Valar-damned sea already: I will not risk any more. And I will not ask any of my people to sacrifice what I cannot." He drew a deep breath. "There is another way."

*~*~*

Gimli was bored. Even the loss of his beard, as traumatic as it was, could not wholly distract him from the sheer tedium of life within the Houses of Healing. In the great sagas a hero would waste away and die after dishonor such as he had suffered, but he seemed to be recuperating annoyingly well. And sending away his well-wishers, as proper and dramatic a gesture as it was, had left him with naught to do but stare at the walls. Even Legolas had not returned after that first morning.

In retrospect that was beginning to worry Gimli. He had not really expected the Elf to leave; he certainly had not thought he would stay away longer than a day at most. If there was one thing he had learned over the course of four years of rocky, often antagonistic friendship, it was that no force in Arda could dissuade Legolas from doing as he thought best, especially if he felt that his friends' welfare was at stake.

But thinking back to that last encounter, Legolas had not seemed his normal self at all. He was too pale, too thin, and his wrists had still been bandaged though by rights his injuries should have healed days ago. There had been an air of impermanence about him, of fragility, though Gimli had never before thought of the Elf as fragile. He had been too distracted to notice it at the time, but as the hours dragged into days with no sign of his friend Gimli was growing increasingly anxious.

The sound of voices in the hall outside caught his attention. "My lord," someone was saying. "Your Majesty, please! You really cannot come back here. Lord Gimli specifically requested that no one –"

Footsteps clattered on the stone flags, and then the door burst open. A tall, powerful Elf swept into the room and bore down on Gimli, several attendants fluttering ineffectually in his wake.

"Gimli son of Glóin, I would speak with you," he said.

Recovering from his initial shock Gimli recognized Legolas' father, the Elvenking of Mirkwood. Thranduil was if anything more imposing than when Gimli had first met him. He had an air of driven intensity, emotion and thought and energy ruthlessly honed and focused upon a single purpose. Gimli sat up in bed and dropped the blankets he had clutched to his chest.

"What's happened?" he said. "Is Legolas hurt? Where is he?" Glancing at the healers he added, "It's all right. Thank you."

"It is of Legolas that I would speak," Thranduil said as the door closed behind his escort, leaving them alone. "He intends to go to Dol Amroth."

"_What?_" Gimli bellowed. A bout of coughing seized him, and for several minutes he could say nothing more until it passed. Red-faced, he fell back against his pillows, one hand pressed to the bandage on his chest.

"Why?" he managed at last. "There is nothing for him there."

"There is the sea," Thranduil said grimly. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher and handed it to Gimli. "I do not know what power it has that he wishes to go there before the Havens, and until I know I dare not refuse him. But I cannot let him go with Elessar –"

"Wait," Gimli said. He shook his head. "_Aragorn's_ going with him? He should be in prison!"

"That is for the Men of Gondor to decide," Thranduil said. He sat down on the chair by Gimli's bed. "For myself I have settled my accounts with him and with the Corsairs. Legolas named him friend –"

"Legolas is injured because of him!" Gimli cried. "Aragorn did that to him! I saw it with my own eyes!"

Thranduil stopped. "You saw it?" he said. "How?"

Gimli paused. "It wasn't exactly with my own eyes," he admitted. "But in Legolas' memory . . . when I brought him back . . . I . . ."

"_You brought him back?_" Thranduil's eyes narrowed. He looked at Gimli as if trying to pierce straight through him. "_How?_"

Gimli felt his face heat. Hesitantly he described his attempt to reach Legolas when the Elf had first been brought to the Houses of Healing: the path he had envisioned between them, the blocked door, and the frightening visions that had assailed him as he neared his goal. He blushed as he remembered the last barrier, the imposing figure of Thranduil himself barring his path.

"And Legolas was there, unconscious – in his own mind, I mean, he was still unconscious – and I held him – he was shivering, he was so cold – and I called him until he woke up. And then the room – the place – it broke apart. I saw . . . I _felt _it. The assault. It was like knives all around me, inside me . . . and Aragorn was there. Everything was confused, but he was there! I saw him!"

Gimli looked up. Thranduil was staring at him, ashen faced. Gimli swallowed. "So it was not really you?"

"No," Thranduil whispered. "It was not. I tried to reach him . . . but I could not. The bond was broken."

He pushed to his feet, a swift, impatient movement. "The bond was broken . . . but you remade it. You forced your way in . . ." he paced with arms folded and head down, muttering to himself in his own tongue. Finally he stopped and looked back at Gimli.

"There was a door, you said. Think carefully, Master Dwarf. Was it locked?"

Gimli blinked. "Well, yes," he said. "I mean, it wasn't a very strong door. Just a few planks of wood and a crosspiece – I kicked it down without any trouble."

Thranduil closed his eyes. "Elbereth," he said. "Of all the perils of mortal friendship, I never thought of this. . . . Have you any idea of what you've done?"

Gimli bristled. He was growing annoyed by this talk in hidden meanings. "I brought Legolas back after what Aragorn did to him!" he said. "Don't you understand? Aragorn _raped –_"

"No," Thranduil said. "He did not. The Corsair captain did that. And . . . so did you."

There was a long pause. Then Gimli shook his head. "No," he said.

"You cannot understand," Thranduil said. "The Elven body is inextricably linked to the mind and soul, and subject to them both. For that reason physical intimacy _cannot _happen without forming a mental and spiritual bond – and therefore occurs only between bonded life-mates. For an Elf then the act of rape is the forcing of an unwanted bond upon the soul – and the soul will do anything, even unto fleeing its body, to escape. Whether the initial violation was physical or mental scarcely matters."

"No," Gimli said again. But he was remembering something that the shade of Thranduil had said in Legolas' mind . . . _This though you perpetrate the worst violation of all, to enter his mind and tear from him even the last escape of death._

"Legolas' physical injuries have not healed because his mind and soul are fractured and cannot heal in Middle-earth. He sealed himself off as well as he could . . . but once broken the mind is easily broken again. And you –"

"_No!_" Gimli shouted. "No, no, no, _no!_ Intention has to count for something too. What I did was _nothing _like what Aragorn or that Corsair did. I brought him back – I saved his _life!_"

"Yes," Thranduil said quietly. "And so I stand here forced to thank a Dwarf who betrayed Legolas' most sacred trust and violated his mind as surely as others did his body – and saved his life. And selfish creature that I am . . . I am grateful. For my son's life, I thank you."

Gimli's head ached. He buried his face in his hands and was vaguely surprised, as always, by the feel of bare skin against his palms.

"If what I did was so bad, why did it work?" he muttered. He looked up into the Elvenking's face. "You said that an Elf would rather die than be bound unwillingly. You said that mental or physical, that was rape."

"Yes," Thranduil said.

"But if he would rather die . . . then why _didn't _Legolas die? Why did he return?"

"I do not know," Thranduil admitted. "No more do I know why he sought out Elessar when he returned, or why he began to fade afterward, or why he fought his way back _again_ when he knew that there was no hope for him here."

"He tried to _warn _Aragorn," Gimli said. "He said something about the guards not being able to stop the army . . . I didn't understand it at the time, but he was talking about the Corsairs' invasion. He used the palantír to summon Aragorn back to Minas Tirith."

"Again with that bloody palantír," Thranduil muttered, and Gimli nodded in whole-hearted agreement.

Thranduil passed a hand over his eyes. "I do not have the answers to any of these questions. But you see why I cannot presume to know how Legolas has survived, or what holds him here – or what effect Elessar or Dol Amroth will have on him."

Gimli shook his head. "Wait a minute. You said he has to sail anyway, so what does it matter if he goes to Dol Amroth first?"

"Dol Amroth is _not_ the Havens," Thranduil said sharply. "There is no ship there that can bear him to the Straight Road. And the sea-longing is not a power to be trifled with. To go there, to be so close to his heart's call and yet unable to answer . . . do you imagine that will do Legolas any good?"

He sighed. "So I am left as I was before, unable to stop him or to let him go. I had hoped that you, being his friend . . . but that is out of the question now."

"What do you mean?" Gimli blinked, stung. "If Legolas is set on going to Dol Amroth then I'm going with him. Of course I am."

"He has no more reason to trust you than he does Elessar," Thranduil said.

"_Are you out of your mind?_" Gimli roared. This brought on another coughing fit, but he struggled through it, red-faced, his eyes watering. "I told you, it was a completely different situation! I _helped _Legolas, even if I did do it in the wrong way, and I'll help him again."

"You _may _have helped him," Thranduil said. "But you cannot deny that you harmed him as well!"

They glared at each other for a long moment. Then Gimli looked away. "Maybe I did," he said. "And maybe not. In any case he doesn't have to worry about me breaking through to him again. I can't."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, and Gimli faltered. "I can't," he said again. "I tried, after he lost consciousness again . . . but I couldn't reach him. Where the path was before . . . there was nothing there."

Thranduil closed his eyes. "_Ai Elbereth, ion nîn,_" he murmured. "_Dannen_ _le a u-erin le regi._"2

"So Legolas has nothing to fear from me," Gimli said. "And – he _helped _me. He was here, and Aragorn . . . I thought it was a dream. But I think now he brought Aragorn here to heal me. So I have meaning for him too. And he is going _nowhere_ without me. Just you wait and see. Damned fool Elf, I'll fix him!"

Thranduil regarded him, his head tilted to one side. He seemed to be considering something. "'For you are both stubborn and impatient . . .'" he murmured, as if to himself. Then he smiled. "Yes indeed, Master Dwarf. I think you will do."

* * *

1 Calaquendi: "Elves of the light," the Vanyar, Noldor and Teleri Elves who answered the Valar's call and saw the light of the Two Trees.

2 _Ai Elbereth, ion nîn._ _Dannen le a u-erin le regi._ Oh Elbereth, my son. You have fallen and I cannot reach you.


	47. To Repair the World

"Love never dies a natural death."

– Anais Nin

Chapter 46: To Repair the World

The drums went on all night. They pulsed in the air, in the earth, in the heart and mind and eye. The old men and the grandmothers felt it, and made a countersign born of ancient superstition, warding off the eldritch hunters, the Firstborn against whom Númenor had sinned of old. Legend told how they would come: vengeful warriors who, the stories said, did not forget and did not forgive and did not die. Now they were here, and the story of the Elvenking's treatment of the Corsairs was already rampant through the city. But some of the bolder folk also heard in the constant beat a reminder of their own long-past battles against the Enemy. They opened shuttered windows to gaze at the moon sailing through tattered seas of cloud, and their hearts beat faster with the raging drums, feeling that they were young again.

The youths and maidens felt it, and went out into the streets of Minas Tirith, under the stars. Their blood pulsed sure and strong as the warrior's song, and the crisp spring air burned like fire in their lungs. Some linked their hands and whirled, laughing, imagining they were dancing like the Elves. Others took to their feet and ran, racing each other through the moon-white streets and down the cobbled alleyways, panting in the sheer joy of being young and swift and strong. In that time, ephemeral as dew before the rising sun, they knew themselves to be immortal.

The very young felt it, toddlers and infants too small to understand. They listened wide-eyed, solemn, until they fell asleep at last in their mothers' arms and dreamed strange dreams.

In the cool morning, as the mist rose from the fields and the fires burned down to a few smoking embers, the drums stopped. In the wake of their silence the city and the surrounding camps were hushed, expectant, as if waiting for something they could not name. It was with a sense of vague disappointment that the people finally emerged to find that another ordinary day had come, with ordinary tasks to be done.

A number of the citadel courtiers were nodding sleepily that morning over their breakfast. Arwen caught snatches of their conversation, their complaints of being kept awake all night. She hid a private grin. She also had not slept that night, but she was not complaining about it.

After returning from the Elven camp she had opened the double windows in her room and sat upon the sill, allowing the drumbeat to pulse through her and quicken her heart. Her unborn son seemed to find the music as invigorating as she did, and kicked her with abandon.

She had been sitting with hands pressed against her belly, torn between delight and pain with each kick, when Aragorn rose sleep-tousled from their bed and joined her. Hesitantly he had stood beside her, his hand upon her shoulder tentative, as if expecting to be rebuffed. She had stiffened at first, tensed from habit more than any real fear. He had felt it, and moved to go, but she caught his hand.

"Wait," she said. "Here." And she moved his hand to her stomach.

His eyes lit, and he came back to her, knelt before her and pressed the palm of his hand against the butterfly-beat of their son's foot. She looked down at him, half-lit by the moonlight that silvered his hair and cast her shadow over his face, and she felt the old conflicting uncertainty, and fear, and love. Still love, after all that they had been through, and she wondered if that should surprise her. An image flashed through her mind: of Legolas in the Elvenking's tent, of the bleakness with which he looked at her.

_I cannot speak of my lord's intentions._

Her fingers slipped through the strands of Aragorn's hair, slid under the strong line of his jaw.

_He said he wished to help me to heal._

His beard tickled the soft pads of her fingers as she lifted his chin, raised his face to hers.

_Will you ask it of me?_

Aragorn's eyes were silver, questioning in the moonlight.

_Yes,_ Arwen thought. _I would, Legolas. We have endured much for this man, you and I, and we can bear a little more. We share his heart, no matter how I or you might wish it otherwise. I bartered your love to bring him back to me, but I will not buy my happiness with your life._

_I also love you._

She bent down and kissed her husband. His lips were firm against hers, his beard prickling her skin. Aragorn did not react at first, as if taken by surprise. Then one strong arm slipped behind her back as he returned the embrace, rising up on his knees, pressing close to her.

She broke the kiss at last, gasping. Her bodice was too tight, constricting her breath. She tore its laces free, struggling to open the binding material. Aragorn looked at her in wonder, and then his large hands were helping her, pushing back the layers of cloth, baring her shoulders and breasts and belly to the night air.

A cool breeze brushed over her heated skin, and she shivered in delicious abandon. Then Aragorn was touching her, rough hands sliding around to support her as he bent into her, breath hot and moist upon her skin. She leaned back into his strong arms, moaning, her hands grasping his shoulders. He groaned low in his throat, the name by which he first had called her_ . . . Tinúviel._ His mouth scraped lightly over sensitized skin, worshipping her with lips and teeth and tongue. Wet kisses cooled as he moved down over the swell of her belly, pushing her skirt up to her thighs.

She looked down and saw his head dark against the moon-glow of her skin, felt the heat rising inside her and the growing strength of their bond renewed. The drums beat in her ears, in her heart, a rhythm too fast for thought or doubt or pain, pounding a wild celebration of triumph and glory. She closed her eyes, and there was simply joy.

No, she was not complaining about her sleepless night.

Aragorn entered the hall. His arrival was unannounced, and it took some moments for the people in the sparsely populated room to notice. Heads began to turn as he made his way from the King's Door to the head table, and about half of the courtiers seated around the hall got to their feet. The others glanced at each other uncertainly, and then looked at Arwen.

She stood up, drawing the rest of the people to their feet with her. _And that is something we will have to address also,_ she thought as Aragorn kissed her. The Council had renounced him and sworn allegiance to the Queen, but no formal ceremony had been performed and no announcement had been made to the common people. Few outside the citadel knew that their King was not actually their King any longer.

_Then what is he?_ Arwen thought, turning to face West with the others. _Queen's Consort? Advisor? I could not bear to see him exiled, but if the Council refuses him . . ._

As they sat down again several of the Council members entered the hall, bleary-eyed and grumbling. They would meet that day to discuss the Corsairs' fate, and on their decision, Arwen knew, would rest Aragorn's future as well. If they agreed to offer terms as Aragorn wanted then they would be accepting his wisdom over their own desire for retribution, and tacitly acknowledging his potential to rule again. If they did not . . .

The sentry at the main doors announced Faramir's arrival, along with Éomer King and the Lady Lothíriel. The people stood without any prompting for the King and Queen of Rohan. Aragorn went forward with Arwen to meet them, bowing to Lothíriel and clasping arms a bit stiffly with Faramir and Éomer.

Alone of the company Éomer and Lothíriel looked well rested, and Éomer kept an affectionate hand at his young wife's back as he escorted her to the high table. In response to Arwen's query Faramir told them that Éowyn was taking the opportunity to sleep in that morning. The Elven drums had kept the infant Finduilas awake all night, cooing and babbling to herself with apparent enjoyment but not affording her parents much rest.

An awkward silence fell as they sat down to eat. Faramir applied himself to his plate of rashers, fried mushrooms and sausage, avoiding Arwen's gaze. Lothíriel also ate quietly, with more attention given to the task than seemed really necessary. Éomer toyed absently with his toast, leaning back in his chair and studying Aragorn from under lowered eyelids. Arwen wondered if he were thinking of Aragorn as he had last seen him, in the desert, and comparing him to as he was now.

For his part Aragorn seemed oblivious of the scrutiny. He was gazing into space, his brow furrowed. He had not touched his food. She laid her hand over his, aware that the others would see the gesture, and spoke too softly for them to hear. "What is wrong?"

He blinked and looked around at her. "Pardon?"

"You're a thousand miles away this morning," she said. "What are you thinking of?"

Aragorn looked down. He picked up his eating knife, turning it absently over between his fingers. "Yesterday Legolas told me that he plans to go with us to Dol Amroth. I was trying to think why."

Faramir glanced up, catching her eye. Arwen looked away. A tiny pang of jealousy smote her. Aragorn's future – _their future _– might be decided today, but he was not thinking of that. His attention was all for Legolas. Again.

With an effort she pushed the hurt aside. Of course Aragorn cared for Legolas, as she did. If there were any chance that he could help the Elf then she would support him. But all the same she could not help being glad that Legolas' ultimate cure lay in the Undying Lands, far from Aragorn's reach.

"He has visited there before, and he was friendly with Prince Imrahil," she said. "Perhaps he simply wishes to pay his respects."

"At the cost of delaying his voyage to the Havens?" Aragorn shook his head. "He is clinging to this world day by day – I can see it. Every hour is a battle against the darkness . . . Dol Amroth must have some intrinsic purpose that he would pay such a price for it."

"Legolas has paid a higher price before," Arwen said, thinking of her own encounter with the Prince. "It is his decision, Aragorn. He may choose to share his reasons with you in time."

"That is just it, there isn't _time –_" Aragorn began, but at that moment a commotion at the far end of the hall interrupted him.

The great entrance doors banged open as a short, stocky figure barreled through them. Beardless and barefoot, a nightshirt of the Houses of Healing flapping around his ankles, Gimli son of Glóin stumped up the central aisle between the long dining tables. A heavy stick thumped on the stone flags with every step, and he was bellowing as he came.

"Aragorn! You spineless weak-minded hairless excuse for a toad, don't you _dare _tell me I can't go! Lock me in the dungeons again, ha! I'd like to see you try! I'll cut you where it _hurts_, laddie. Lay a finger on him again and I'll –"

A spasm of coughing overtook him and he doubled over, wheezing, a hand pressed to his chest. When it passed he straightened and came on, his face red with exertion and rage.

"Legolas is going to the Mahal-damned sea and I'm going with him! You're not leaving me behind again! Left behind – ha, _you _should be the one left behind, in your own bloody dungeon to rot, that's where! And why –" he reached the head table and turned, glaring at the assembled councilors, "_why _hasn't he been, eh? What are you waiting for? Your city damn near burned to the ground thanks to him!"

The company gaped at him in silence. Two guards started forward uncertainly, caught between the need to defend Isildur's Heir and the impossibility of laying hands upon one of the Nine Walkers. Aragorn relieved their dilemma by waving them back to their stations.

"I am glad to see you on your feet again, Lord Gimli," he said. "It seems that the strength of the Dwarves is greater even than legend tells."

Gimli seemed hardly mollified by this. He shot Aragorn a dark look and rounded on Faramir. "Well?"

Faramir looked uncomfortable. "Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere."

"Like Mordor we will!" Gimli shouted. "We're talking about it _now_, before he does any more damage!"

Faramir sighed. "There are other factors to consider, Master Dwarf," he said. "King Elessar did return to warn us of the attack, and he gave much both in the battle and in tending the wounded afterward."

"But there wouldn't have _been _a battle if it weren't for him!" Gimli said. "The army wouldn't have been drawn away, and Legolas wouldn't have been hurt."

"I don't know about that," Éomer interjected. "I was right, you know: there was a worm out there, and from the signs we found he had been gathering his army in the desert for many months. This attack was long in the making. Even had he not found his opening in Elessar's mind he would have preyed on some other weakness in our defenses."

"I agree," Faramir said. "He knew how we would react and anticipated us – even to using the palantír to find our scouts before they could warn us of the invasion. A man with the patience and thoroughness to design this plot would not give up until he achieved his goal, however well we resisted."

"It was a vengeance forty-five years in the making," Aragorn said quietly. "Dragaer was patient, if nothing else." He looked at Faramir. "He never even tried to control the palantír. He waited for me to find his army and let me draw my own conclusions. At most he was a . . . filter, colouring my perceptions. He only spoke to me in the aftermath, when I was unaware."

Faramir nodded. "That is why I did not sense another power over the palantír. He exerted no power. He only waited, and watched . . . they are fell devices, the seeing stones. It seems to me that some gifts of the Eldar would be better returned to their masters."

Gimli snorted. "None of that changes what Aragorn did. He hurt Legolas, he practically gave the Corsairs the keys to the city and you all sit here making excuses for him!"

"Peace, Gimli," Aragorn said. "I accept responsibility for my actions. I will abide by the Council's decree."

"A decree that will not be rendered by our sitting here," the head of the Council spoke for the first time. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion in a more private venue, Your Majesty."

Arwen nodded, relieved. Apart from Gimli's shouting the conversation had been carried on in low voices, but she was uncomfortably aware of the attentive gathering below. "We will convene in the Council chamber in ten minutes."

"Fine then," Gimli said as they pushed back their chairs. He leaned on his staff, his baleful gaze fixed on Aragorn. "Just so long as you all know I'm going with Legolas no matter what."

_Agreed_, Arwen thought. She knew that Aragorn was going regardless of the Council's decision – abide by their decree he would in time, but nothing, not exile or prison or even the death sentence would keep him from Legolas' side now. She knew that, and she knew his reasons for it. Honor, duty, guilt, the love for a brother in arms . . . the reasons he would tell her if she asked, the reasons he told himself.

And perhaps they were even true. But she was glad that Gimli would be with them nonetheless.

*~*~*

For the common people of Minas Tirith the day passed quietly. There was some talk of the goings-on up at the citadel – the story of the disruption at breakfast spread rapidly through the city. Lord Gimli of the Nine Walkers had appeared and made some dire if nonspecific accusations against King Elessar – accusations supported by Elessar's confession at the trial. The Council was meeting to render its verdict.

Speculations about the King's fate filled their conversation as the people worked to repair their homes and businesses. Many viewed the proceedings with mixed feelings: the King was an ideal that they had held for so long that it was difficult to grasp that he was also a real person, with real failings. They knew he had confessed to something terrible that was somehow related to the Corsairs' invasion, though no one knew exactly what it was. Some who had lost family in the battle said that he should be sent into exile, or even executed, for had he not taken the army away and left them defenseless? But those who had seen him after the battle were steadfast in their support. And the wounded men he had tended in the healers' tents were adamant that he was and always would be their King, and threatened to fight anyone who spoke against him.

At noon a ripple of excitement ran through the crowds. People gathered at the city wells to talk, or leaned out of their windows and called to each other – "did you hear? Éomer King walked out of the Council meeting. He said – they were bringing in the luncheon, and everyone heard him – he said, 'The worm is dead and the madness is passed. Elessar speaks wisdom, if you have the wit to see it. And if you reject him now then you reject the judgment of Rohan and you forsake the oaths of friendship between us.' And then he just turned and walked out, and the Rohirrim went with him."

A little while later the word went out: he is coming. The people around the well stood aside as the King of Rohan went past, a contingent of Riders behind him. They carried a single green pennant on a long pole, and both the pennant and the horsetails of their helms hung limp in the warm sunshine. The crowded street was silent but for the steady clop of hooves on the cobblestones. Then someone started to clap. Slowly at first, then louder and faster the applause spread through the square and then they began to cheer . . .

At five o'clock the criers came down from the citadel. In every square of every level they unrolled their proclamations and the people gathered close to hear.

"Be it known that the Captain of the Corsairs, Dragaer son of Seregsul, waged war against the King and people of Gondor. Be it also known that the Captain was cast down and died by the hand of Prince Legolas son of Thranduil and by the sword of King Elessar in defense of the Free Peoples. Therefore know this day that the People of Gondor and Arnor do honor to Prince Legolas, to King Thranduil and to the Firstborn of Eryn Lasgalen who came at the hour of Gondor's need. And the People do honor and swear fealty to His Majesty King Elessar Telcontar and to Her Majesty Queen Arwen Undómiel, equal sovereigns of Gondor and Arnor and Protectors of the Free Peoples . . ."

*~*~*

It was a compromise, Arwen thought. They could not quite bring themselves to wholly trust Aragorn, not yet. But Faramir and some of the others who had seen Aragorn's dedication after the battle stood by him, and in the wake of Éomer's ultimatum even the greatest hardliners could not reject him entirely. So he would remain King, but he would not stand alone.

_Equal _sovereigns . . . that would take some time for the people to grow accustomed to. Gondor had had ruling Queens in the past, but never a King and Queen who ruled together in partnership. At the very least they would have to build a second seat at the top of the throne room's steps.

Of all those assembled in the Council room Gimli had seemed most comfortable with the arrangement. Little was known about the ruling councils of Dwarves, but from his reaction it appeared that it was not unusual for their women to lead them, at least within the confines of the mines. His chief concern was that no one interfere with his watch over Legolas. Once assured that Aragorn had no intention of coming between them he lost interest in the debate. He sat quietly in a far corner, nursing his wounds and keeping a wary eye on Aragorn for the rest of the proceedings.

Faramir helped to sway the most stubborn councilors, Garwick and his ilk. They _were _the descendents of Númenor, he pointed out. They could do worse than to model their court after that of the High Elves, the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood. Consider, after all: their Queen was the daughter's daughter of the Lady herself!

Some of the councilors shifted uneasily in their chairs at that. The tale of Boromir's final journey in a boat of Lothlórien bearing tokens of the Lady had done little to dispel the legends surrounding the Golden Wood. The old superstitions had been tempered by exposure to Arwen and to Legolas' colony of Elves in Ithilien, but the name of the Lady was still regarded with trepidation in Gondor. Arwen rather thought that Grandmother would have been pleased.

For her part Arwen sat as calmly as she could and let the debate carry on around her. They accepted the arrangement in the end, because of their past oaths, because of Faramir's word but most of all because of Aragorn. His call for mercy to the Corsairs had struck a chord, though it ran counter to the councilors' personal inclinations. In their hearts they recognized the wisdom of his summons for them to rise above their own hurt, to choose peace over their desire for revenge. They responded grudgingly, hesitantly and with much bickering amongst themselves, but they responded nonetheless.

The feast that night was in honor of the King Thranduil and the Elves, but Arwen knew it to be more than that. The proclamations had gone out that afternoon and all through the city the bells rang in joyful celebration. The weight of doubt and uncertainty had lifted: at long last the people were welcoming their King home. She sat beside Aragorn at the high table and looked out over the festive hall, and her heart swelled with happiness.

She spied Faramir below, guiding Éowyn between the packed tables of the hall. He had been the first to swear allegiance to the King and Queen, leading the Council in coming forward to kneel before them. Arwen had bent down to lay her hands over his and whispered, "You are ever my sage counsel and my friend. Thank you, Faramir."

He looked up at her, his eyes shining. "Your Majesty."

When Aragorn's turn came he clasped Faramir's shoulder, drawing him to his feet. "We will have a proper ceremony, I think, to restore the White Rod of the Steward where it belongs." He hesitated, looking searchingly at Faramir. "Is it in your power now?"

Arwen glanced over at them, puzzled, but Faramir looked long into Aragorn's eyes. "It is, Your Majesty," he said. "I serve at my King's command."

Later Arwen asked Aragorn what they meant by this exchange. He had smiled a touch wearily. "It was something that Faramir said after the battle, when I asked if he could forgive me. He said that with time, when it was in his power . . . he would."

Faramir and Éowyn had reached the head table now, and Aragorn rose to acknowledge Faramir's bow. Éowyn seemed less than comfortable, Arwen noted, and though she returned Arwen's smile warmly she kept a watchful gaze on Aragorn as they sat down.

She was soon distracted, however, for Thranduil leaned across the table to better see the baby in her arms. The Elvenking and his four sons were ranged along the table to Aragorn's right. They had been lounging in their chairs, watching with polite interest the celebration that, Arwen realized, must seem very dull in comparison to the Wood-elves' dances the night before.

But now Thranduil was alive with curiousity. "May I?" he said to Éowyn, and reached to stroke the infant Finduilas' cheek. "Long it has been since I have seen so young an Adan."

Arwen knew what he meant. Recovered from the trauma of her entry into the world, Finduilas' head had returned to a normal shape. The newborn mortal's skin seemed to glow with almost an Elven light. So young, her _faer _was already burning with the intensity that would consume her body in a scant hundred years or so.

It was a case of mutual fascination. As Thranduil carefully lifted her in his arms, Finduilas fixed wide grey eyes upon him and reached to grasp a shining golden braid.

"She fancies you, adar," Farothlin grinned. "Mind that she does not entice you into staying here another thirty years."

"Hush," Thranduil retorted, wincing as he unwound his hair from the tiny fingers. "She simply has good taste, that's all."

"Mmm," Tatharin was watching the main floor, where a troupe of jugglers was completing a complicated finale of whirling hoops and balls. The last hoop soared high overhead and was caught with a flourish. As the audience broke out in applause Tatharin turned to his brothers with a wicked grin.

"Shall we?"

Farothlin followed his brother's gaze. "Oh, I think we shall."

"Do not do anything foolish," Thranduil admonished without looking up. He had lifted Finduilas' tunic and was tickling her fat belly as she gurgled happily.

"Father!" Tatharin was the picture of outraged innocence. "We seek only to interact with the Edain, to improve the relations between Eryn Lasgalen and Gondor for the betterment of all Free Peoples."

"Hmph," Thranduil said. "Just do not frighten the mortals, that is all I ask."

With a whoop three of the brothers leapt from their places and dashed down to the floor. Sídhan remained behind, smiling a little as he watched. He had always been the most restrained of Thranduil's sons, and Arwen had the impression he was trying to maintain the dignity of the House of Oropher in the face of all odds.

Beneath the table Aragorn was holding Arwen's hand. "I wish Legolas were here now," he said.

Arwen turned her head. "Why is that?"

"I have never seen him perform with his brothers." Aragorn nodded toward the floor. "I wonder if he would."

The Princes were in earnest discussion with the juggling troupe. They seemed to come to an agreement and broke apart, moving well back from each other.

"Legolas can juggle?" Arwen blinked, wondering why that surprised her. Now that the possibility occurred to her there was no reason to disbelieve it, but . . . she had known him all his life and she had not known.

"I only saw him once," Aragorn said. "We were in the northlands and it was my turn to hunt supper while Legolas set up camp. I was delayed and I suppose Legolas became bored waiting for me. There were some pinecones lying about . . ."

"Legolas juggled the _pinecones?_"

"I think he started with the pinecones. By the time I arrived he had three of them plus most of our camp utensils and crockery flying through the air."

"Most of the Silvan Elves juggle," Thranduil said as Arwen laughed. "My wife was very accomplished at it. She taught our sons when they were small, and I encouraged them to develop their skills for diplomatic purposes."

"Diplomatic purposes, my lord?" Faramir asked.

"Yes of course," Thranduil said. "Keeping all of those balls up in the air . . . what better training for diplomacy can you imagine?"

Out on the floor the performers were starting slowly, throwing a series of large hoops between them, feeling out each other's skills. Arwen could see Thranduil's sons holding back, allowing the Men to set the pace.

"Of course Legolas was never the demonstrative type," Thranduil said. "I doubt he would be willing to make a spectacle of himself even at Tatharin's urging."

The mortal jugglers seemed to sense that they were being patronized, or perhaps they wished to challenge the Firstborn for reasons of their own. The speed of the hoops was picking up. A crowd was forming as the other Elves and mortals in the hall gathered to watch.

"Even in the Fellowship he was quiet," Aragorn said. "He would sing for us sometimes, but anything else . . . I did suggest in Hollin that a performance would cheer the Hobbits, but he still refused. He had other concerns on his mind."

"There _was_ the Ring to worry about," Arwen reminded him.

"Yes," Aragorn grinned. "But I think Legolas was more concerned about Gimli seeing him."

The hoops were whirling so fast now that they were blurred, and several balls and a few light clubs had been added to the mix. The Men wore looks of extreme concentration, and several were beginning to sweat. The Elves seemed merely focused.

Then with a shout one of the Men produced a blunted throwing knife and sent it flying in a high arc over the other objects to the far side of the circle where Farothlin caught it. Arwen saw a look flash between the brothers, and then they began to smile.

"Perfectly sensible," Thranduil said. "There was no call to risk amusement at the expense of the Greenwood, particularly when there were Dwarves about."

"Adar, that Dwarf is here now," Sídhan said, nodding to where Gimli sat with Éomer and Lothíriel at the far end of the table, his crutch propped beside him. "And you yourself said –"

"That is different," Thranduil said. "He is an Elf-friend now."

Sídhan shot his father an amused look. "You said Legolas would have done better to have named the horse elvellon."

"Do not be absurd," Thranduil said. "I would never say such a thing. I raised you better than that, Sídhan."

The Prince's mouth quirked, but he bowed his head. "Yes, sire."

Aragorn had gone very still. "The horse . . ." he muttered.

Arwen looked at him. "What is it?"

Aragorn stood up, drawing the rest of the table to their feet with him. "A hunch," he said. "There is something to which I must attend. I will return shortly."

He kissed Arwen's hand and went out. Arwen looked down the table in time to see Gimli climb to his feet and follow, his stick tucked under his arm.

Éowyn was watching the jugglers. From nowhere the sons of Thranduil had produced what seemed to be a dozen knives of all shapes and sizes that were now flashing through the air between them almost too quickly to see. All but one of the mortal jugglers had dropped out entirely and were watching them from the sidelines. A few guards hovered around the edges of the crowd, unsure of what to do in the face of this flagrant violation of the edict forbidding weapons in the King's house.

"Well," she said, "I don't believe anyone would have call to laugh at that."

Faramir nodded beside her. "It's incredible."

Thranduil followed their gaze. "Oh," he said. "Not really. They haven't added the torches yet."

*~*~*

In the cool evening far from the light and noise of the citadel, in the sixth circle, Cebril was tending to the horses. He liked working with horses. He felt he understood them. They were large, gentle animals, for the most part, as he was large and gentle. They responded to a slow and quiet approach, and Cebril was by nature slow and quiet. They would nuzzle his pockets for treats, and were never loud or impatient with him as people sometimes were. Some people got impatient with him when he did not move fast enough or answer sharply enough. Sometimes they yelled, but more often they would sigh loudly and shake their heads. The stable master told them that he didn't mean anything by it, that he was a good boy but a bit soft-headed and he didn't understand.

But Cebril did understand. He kept his head down and did his work, and when the night fell and the master retired to his house above the stables and the other hands went home, he sat in the straw behind the open stable door and listened to the movements and low snuffles of the animals behind him and breathed the sweet scents of hay and clover and horses and was quiet.

That night he had been sitting for a while, looking up at the lights of the citadel and chewing on a piece of straw, when he became aware of a shadow in the doorway that did not belong. He did not know how long it had been there, but when he looked more closely it detached itself from the surrounding darkness and became the figure of a man.

He thought – he _felt _the man look at him, but he did not say anything and Cebril did not know if he should say something to him. He was used to being called when he was wanted – 'hey you, boy, come here' usually did it – but the man did not speak and Cebril was unsure of what to do.

The man walked forward into the darkened stable. Cebril wondered if he should fetch a light, but the man had not asked for one and while he was thinking about it the man pulled back his hood and Cebril saw that he was an Elf. _Oh, that's all right then,_ Cebril thought. Everyone knew that Elves could see in the dark.

All of the horses were awake now, snorting and pushing their heads up against the bars of their stalls, looking at the Elf. He walked past them toward the loosebox at the far end of the stable.

_Shouldn't do that,_ Cebril thought. The white horse was in that box, the one who was so wild that no one could get a halter on him. He'd come back from the war without his rider. He fought anyone who came near him, even Cebril, and once he was confined to loosebox the hands learned to keep well away from that end of the stable.

Now he had his head up against the bars, whuffling and snorting. The Elf stopped outside the door and reached through the bars and laid his hand on the white horse's neck, and the white horse went still. They stood quiet for more than a minute. Then the Elf opened the gate and went into the box.

Cebril waited, his hands were pressed up against his mouth, but the white horse did not fight. He whickered once, low, and then was quiet. Cebril waited a long time. Then he started to walk toward the box, but before he went three steps the white horse jerked his head up and whinnied. His ears were back and in the dim light from the doorway Cebril could see the whites of his eyes.

Cebril stopped. He backed away. The white horse watched him go. Then he snorted and lowered his head down again.

Cebril climbed the ladder up to the loft. He took off his shoes and walked on bare feet over the rough planks to the far end of the stable, where he could look down on the white horse's stall.

The white horse had his head bent down to the floor. Cebril looked at the place where his neck curved down for two whole minutes before he saw the Elf sitting in the shadow there. The white horse was resting his head against the Elf's back, and the Elf's head was bent down between his knees.

It was quiet. Cebril thought he heard the Elf breathe out once, a harsh, choked sound. Then he was still.

Almost an hour passed. Cebril stretched out on the stack of clean hay in the loft and dozed. He awoke to the sound of voices.

"I told you, Gimli, I do not know. It's only a hunch."

"Fine." The second voice was deeper, more gravelly than the first.

"You really do not need to come with me."

"That's what you say."

Cebril squirmed forward on his stomach and lowered his head over the edge of the loft. Two figures were silhouetted in the stable door. One was tall, the other shorter and leaned upon a stick. Cebril watched them upside down as they crossed the stable floor.

The white horse bugled a challenge. The two men stopped. Then the tall one moved forward again slowly. "Peace, Arod," he said. "Peace. It's all right."

Cebril wasn't so sure. The white horse's head was up and the door of his stall was still open. He whinnied again and stamped.

The tall man kept coming, speaking softly now in a language that Cebril did not understand. But the white horse seemed to be listening. His ears came up and he stood still while the man approached.

_"Man ruith?_" the man said. _"Man dagor cenich?_"1 He was close enough now to touch the stall rail.

The white horse snorted and shook his mane. Then he lowered his head.

The man looked over the box wall. "Legolas?"

"Legolas!" the shorter figure started forward. The man caught his shoulder.

"Wait," he said.

"Leave off, Aragorn," the short one said. "_I've _sworn you no oath."

"Gimli?" The Elf's voice was so quiet that Cebril almost did not hear it. The two men froze.

"Legolas!" the short one, Gimli, pushed away Aragorn's hand. "Are you all right?"

"Do you wish the customary answer, friend Gimli, or an honest one?" There was the faintest edge of humor to the Elf's voice. Looking down over the edge of the loft Cebril saw a dark form standing beside the white horse. He could not see the Elf's features at all.

"An honest one, always," Aragorn said.

There was a pause. "There is no call for talk of honesty between us, my lord," Legolas said at last. "What do you want of me?"

"Nothing," the tall man said. "I only thought . . . if you wished company . . ."

"Do you require me to attend you?"

"Legolas, please." Aragorn sounded shaken. "I only wanted to offer my aid before you go."

"Did you think I was leaving Minas Tirith tonight? There are scouts of Eryn Lasgalen surrounding this city, Aragorn. My father has a guard on me now – they watched you enter here."

"You know that is not what I meant."

They looked at each other. The stable was silent but for the night sounds outside and the slow swish of the horses' tails. Then Legolas said, very softly, "I know. I do not wish for company tonight, my lord."

Aragorn did not move or speak for a long moment. Then he inclined his head in a brief salute and turned away. "Come, Gimli."

"What? No! You think I'm going to walk away and leave him with the damn fool _horse_? I am going _nowhere_. You hear me, Legolas? I'm staying! So talk plain Common for once in your blasted life and tell me what in Mordor is going on here!"

"Gimli." As quiet as it was, the Elf's voice cut clearly across the short one's bluster. "Gimli, please go."

They went. Aragorn walked away slowly, his feet almost soundless on the cobbles. Gimli stomped and grumbled in his wake, turning twice to look back at the Elf behind him. Cebril saw them framed briefly in the stable door, the tall one and the short one leaning on his stick. Then they were gone.

When the sound of their footsteps had died away Legolas sighed and bowed his head against the white horse's shoulder. "Now you can hear," he said. His voice was low but clear. "When I shouted you were deaf, when I fought you laid siege to conquer. And I am conquered. With every lock broken and every defense stripped away I lie before you open, and know you for my master. And when I can do naught but whisper . . . now you hear and leave your spoils. Ai Elessar, Aragorn . . . Ai Estel, why did it come to this?"

Cebril heard him draw a shuddering breath. Then he was still. And though Cebril lay awake for a long time listening, the Elf did not make another sound.

* * *

1 _Man ruith? Man dagor cenich? _What is this anger? What battle do you see?


	48. The Sea

"And he carries the reminders

Of ev'ry glove that laid him down

Or cut him till he cried out

In his anger and his shame,

'I am leaving, I am leaving.'

But the fighter still remains."

– Paul Simon, _The Boxer_

Chapter 47: The Sea

They burned Dragaer's body in the great courtyard of Minas Tirith. The prisoners were set to burying the rest of the Corsair dead according to their own customs, but no one suggested that the mastermind of the city's near defeat be accorded the same honor. For his part Aragorn was simply glad that the people accepted this end for the Captain, rather than parading his head upon a spike as some had wanted.

A pavilion was erected on the steps of the citadel with seats for the nobility. Aragorn was too keyed up to sit. He paced the edge of the platform as the others took their places: Faramir, Éowyn, Éomer, and Gimli. Gimli climbed the steps with the aid of his stick and promptly sat down, rubbing his chest. Éomer King joined him, stretching his long legs before him in a show of ease that was belied by the keen intensity of his gaze.

Arwen joined them. She was clad in a robe of royal hue, wearing a crown of silver to match Aragorn's own. Aragorn went to her and slipped an arm around her waist. "I did not know if you would come."

"Do you imagine me so delicate?" Arwen smiled at him. "I fought against him fully as long as you did, my love, though my enemy was hidden from me."

Aragorn met her gaze and marveled again at the grace by which this strong, beautiful woman had been joined to him. He bowed low to kiss her hand, seeking to hide the tears that pricked his eyes.

Faramir and Éowyn did not sit, but stood together at the far side of the pavilion, watching the crowd. Faramir looked fully as tense as Aragorn felt. Éowyn held her baby in her arms. Aragorn had wondered at that, and apparently he was not the only one, for Éomer got to his feet and walked over to his sister.

"Is this the place for a child?" he asked. He kept his voice low, but he was a man accustomed to rough life on the open plains, and whispering was not in his nature. Aragorn heard his words clearly.

Éowyn shot her brother a fierce look. "Finduilas is the daughter of a shield-maiden. That pirate nearly killed her father. She will witness his end."

For a moment her eyes looked past Éomer to Aragorn. He inclined his head to her, a small gesture of respect. Her mouth tightened and she looked away.

There was a stirring in the crowd below. The people fell back as the Elvenking entered the courtyard with his sons, an escort of Elven warriors around them. Thranduil had rejected all invitations to join the mortal nobles on the citadel's pavilion. Instead he took a position near the White Tree, his sons and warriors arrayed around him.

Aragorn squinted, but among the brown and auburn and black haired Elves that surrounded Thranduil he spied not a hint of blond.

"He is not here," Arwen said. Her voice was strained. "Lothíriel also chose not to come."

"I do not wonder at her absence," Aragorn said. "Imrahil would not want his daughter to see this."

"I did not say she would not see," Arwen said. "Merely that she would not come here."

Aragorn looked at her. Her face was set, her eyes fixed on the crowd below.

The people thronged the greenway, surrounding the newly constructed pyre. Guards had cleared a path through the multitude to the gate of the Silent Street. Someone shouted and the crowd surged forward: the gate was opening. A phalanx of soldiers in black and silver marched into the courtyard. They were members of the King's Guard, and Captain Aelon's former second in command was at their head.

There was a soft, indrawn breath from Arwen. Éowyn lifted her chin, her eyes glittering. Aragorn stood silent, his arms folded across his chest. Some of the people spat on the ground as Dragaer's body was carried past.

The back of Aragorn's neck prickled. He turned his head sharply, searching the citadel wall. Halfway along the expanse he spied a slender figure seated high upon a balcony railing, arms wrapped around his knees. Long hair shone white-gold in the sun.

They laid Drager's body on the pyre.

"Good riddance," Gimli rumbled. Éomer made a noise of assent. Aragorn's shoulders were tensed, his folded arms locked tighter, tighter about his chest. Flames licked up, colorless in the pale sunshine.

"He will burn, as the heathen kings of old," Faramir said. His arm was around Éowyn's shoulders, holding her close. His face was very pale.

_Yes, and he would prefer this fate,_ Aragorn thought with sudden clarity. _He would, even over burial at sea._

Arwen touched his shoulder. "You're shaking," she said.

With an effort he unlocked his arms, reached down to grasp her hand. He clutched too tight, but she did not protest. With her free hand she brushed the hair back from his face. She leaned her head against his shoulder, watching as the smoke climbed to the sky.

Aragorn raised his eyes, looking over her head to the citadel wall. The row of balconies was empty. The solitary watcher was gone.

*~*~*

They set out for Dol Amroth the next day, in the cool morning as the mist was rising from the Pelennor fields. They were a hundred strong, soldiers and standard bearers of Gondor and Riders of Rohan escorting the long train of wagons bearing Prince Imrahil and the fallen Knights of Dol Amroth.

Éomer King rode his great charger with Lothíriel seated upon a grey palfrey at his side. Faramir rode with them. Aragorn went upon the gelding that he had acquired from the scout of Dol Amroth. It was a doughty steed, but plain in appearance and shorter of limb than Hasufel or the other stallions that might have borne the King. The royal drapes looked odd on its smaller body, but Aragorn refused to ride another. "He suits me well enough," he said.

Gimli was put out that he could not ride upon Arod with Legolas. This amused Aragorn, Éomer, and everyone else who had listened to the Dwarf's loud complaints over the years at being, as he put it, 'dragged along as baggage by that fool vagabond Elf.' But Gimli apparently saw no contradiction between his previous anger and his current outrage at being denied his accustomed position.

Outrage or no, however, the truth remained that Gimli's injuries would not abide being jostled on horseback. He went in a cart at the head of the column with Aragorn riding on his left and Legolas upon Arod at his right.

There was no discussion of whether _Legolas'_ injuries would bear the journey. Aragorn did wonder, when he saw the Elf lead Arod from the stables, but he said nothing of his private misgivings. Legolas had made clear his desire to be left alone, and Aragorn was determined to respect his wishes. He stood silent, though every instinct he possessed demanded that he help his friend.

The whole city turned out for their departure. Amid the noise and confusion of the stable yard Arwen kissed Aragorn cupped a hand to his cheek. "Trust in yourself," she said. "As you trust in us. We will be here when you return."

Aragorn cupped his hand around hers. "You are ever the Lady of my heart," he said. "Rule well."

"I shall," Arwen said. Then she smiled, her eyes glinting with mischief. "I plan to open negotiations with the Corsairs today. Unless you would rather we wait until you return."

"By all means no," Aragorn said. "I would back you in a debate against any man, whether Corsair, Haradic or Gondorian. I only ask that you leave them with some token for their pride at the end of the day."

"Fear not, my lord," Arwen said gravely. "I assure you, I am nothing if not concerned about male pride."

Aragorn laughed in earnest then, and kissed her again before swinging himself up into the saddle. At the far side of the courtyard Faramir was taking his leave of Éowyn and their daughter. Lothíriel and Éomer were already mounted on their horses behind him. In the center of the yard a pair of horses waited patiently between the staves of a large wagon, from the interior of which Gimli's grumbles could be clearly heard.

Arwen went to bid Legolas farewell. Aragorn could not hear what they spoke, but he saw Legolas take her hand. She reached up to brush his cheek and he returned the gesture, leaning his forehead against hers for a fleeting moment. Something clenched in Aragorn's chest. He and Legolas had shared that same age-old gesture of Elven friendship more times than he could remember.

The horns blew a clear note, ringing through the White City. Legolas straightened and Arwen stepped back. Legolas pulled himself astride Arod. He turned away from Arwen and the others as he did so, so that they did not see the skin tighten around his eyes, the catch of his teeth upon his lip. But Aragorn saw. Legolas' wince as he settled himself on Arod's back cut him to the core.

Legolas sat Arod without tack or bridle, as always. He wore a fresh hunting tunic of green and brown, and with his quiver again at his back and his hair braided away from his face he looked much the same as he had always done. Only the closest of observers would note the edge of bandage that peeked beneath the vambraces at his wrists, and only one who knew what to look for would see the darkness of his eyes as he sat with head bowed, stroking Arod's mane in slow repetition.

Aragorn saw everything, in an agony of shame and helpless frustration. Arwen observed it too. She raised her hand in farewell to them both, smiling, though Aragorn saw her blink back tears. He bowed to her from the saddle. Then he urged his horse ahead, and Éomer trotted to join him. Faramir, Lothíriel and Legolas followed as they passed beneath the archway into the second circle. Behind them the long column of wagons wound in single file through the narrow streets of Minas Tirith, the horsemen riding two abreast between them.

A stiff breeze was blowing from the west when they passed through the city gates and out into the Pelennor. It tangled the men's hair and made the banners snap overhead. Aragorn looked back in time to see Legolas turn his face into the wind and breathe deeply. For a moment his eyes closed and his hands clenched upon Arod's mane, whitened. Then he looked ahead again. Whatever emotion he might have felt at that moment was gone, his face expressionless.

Beyond the gates the road widened, allowing them to spread out as they rode. The Elven army filled the fields on both sides of the road. The warriors of Eryn Lasgalen stood in quiet ranks outside their tents, watching the procession pass. Aragorn nodded to the nearer ones, but they paid him no heed. The whole silent multitude ignored him, seemingly indifferent to the display of royal pageantry and the presence of the Kings of Gondor and of Rohan in their midst. Every Elven gaze was fixed on a point behind him, every ounce of Elven concentration locked upon the slender Elf who rode at Aragorn's back. There was no noise but the rustle of the wind, the thud of the horses' hooves and the creak of wagon wheels. Aragorn felt chilled. In all the thousands that surrounded them, none made a single sound.

"Don't say much, do they?" Gimli muttered. The note of bravado rang false: he was plainly unnerved. No one answered.

Somewhere in the multitude a single voice raised a clear note. Then another joined it, and another, until a thousand strong were singing. Listening, Aragorn realized that the melody was a variation of the song they had sung at Thranduil's triumph, but where before it had rung triumphant over the beat of the drums, now it was in minor key, threaded with grief. He looked down, a lump forming in his throat.

The song ended on a high, pure note.

Then, with no signal or command that Aragorn could see, a ripple of motion ran across the plain. The Avari began it, dropping to one knee with head bowed, their left hand gripping the spear beside them and their right fist upon their heart. The Silvan Elves joined them, then the Sindar, and the ripple became a tide rushing out around them as the warriors of Eryn Lasgalen knelt to pay homage there, in a muddy field of Gondor.

Aragorn reined in his horse, falling back so that he rode opposite Legolas with Gimli's cart between them. He stole a sideways glance at the Mirkwood Prince.

Legolas rode straight-backed and with head held high, looking neither right nor left. He wore only a plain hunting tunic, but he might have been clad in robes of finest silk. His head was bare, but the sun lit his hair like a crown of gold. He accepted the warriors' tribute as one born to it, neither embarrassed nor reveling in the attention.

A wave of deep humility engulfed Aragorn. For so long had he known Legolas, had hunted and tracked and fought beside him, had shared his company and accepted his friendship, and he had never stopped to consider the import of it. He knew his friend's titles, of course, and he had seen him in Mirkwood's court, but Legolas was so habitually modest, so quiet and unassuming that it was easy to forget that he was a Lord of the Sindar, a royal scion of the House of Oropher and in line of succession to the last great Kingdom of the Eldar in Middle-earth.

For almost the whole of Aragorn's life he had been privileged to call the Prince of Mirkwood his friend. Legolas had always been there, almost as far back as he could remember, quiet and steadfast and always a half-step behind him. And he, first in the casual thoughtlessness of youth and then later in the accustomed habit of age, he had scarcely reckoned their friendship a privilege at all.

They reached the midpoint of the Elven camp, and there Thranduil was waiting. The Elvenking acknowledged Aragorn and Éomer with a nod and focused his attention on Legolas. "You ride well."

Legolas did not dismount to greet the King. He bowed to his father from Arod's back. "Thank you, sire."

Thranduil glanced at Aragorn and then stepped close to Legolas, laying a hand upon Arod's neck. "You need not go. There is still time to turn from this course."

"I have chosen this course," Legolas replied. "From the beginning it was my choice, Father."

Thranduil studied him for a long moment, taking in his erect posture and the proud lift of his head, and missing nothing, Aragorn knew, of the bandages at his wrists and the half-concealed bruises at his throat and the darkness behind his eyes.

"And do you regret your choice, my son?" he said.

Legolas looked away. Aragorn saw him swallow. "By your leave, my lord," he said.

Thranduil stepped back. His eyes flicked again to Aragorn, and then to Gimli. "Journey well," he said. "May the Valar keep you, and may the blessings of all free folk go with you. May you find the answers that you seek."

Legolas bowed again to his father and then kicked Arod's flank with his heel. The horse sprang forward at once. Aragorn bowed hastily and urged his horse to follow. Gimli shouted in protest behind him, and then he heard the Dwarf's cart lurch belatedly into pursuit. Éomer and Lothíriel and Faramir were next to follow, with the whole long wagon train winding behind them.

Legolas kept his head high as they passed through the rest of the Elven camp and then the armies of Gondor and Rohan beyond. He rode with his back rigid, almost painfully straight, and his face was smooth and expressionless as a statue carved in marble. Not until they were well beyond the Rammas Echor and past the sight of the keenest Elven gaze did his shoulders slump and the faintest breath of pain escape him.

Aragorn turned his head at the sound, so soft that he would have missed it had he not been listening for it, and saw Gimli studying his friend as well. Legolas' face was drawn, his lips compressed. His back was ever so slightly bent, his shoulders curved fractionally in upon himself. Aragorn shared a look with Gimli, and he saw concern in the Dwarf's brown eyes to match his own.

There was nothing anyone could say. They rode on.

By mid-afternoon Legolas was visibly suffering. He showed no interest in the landscape around them. Through field and forest alike he rode with head down and hands fisted in Arod's mane, sunk in an internal misery.

They stopped to rest the horses on the green plains south of Minas Tirith, along the banks of a narrow stream that flowed east into the Anduin. North of them the White Mountains towered sharp and clear against the blue sky. Far to the west bulked the hills of Dol Amroth, hazy in the distance.

Legolas slid down from Arod's back and landed with a thud upon the turf. His knees buckled upon the impact and he caught himself with a hand on Arod's withers, leaning heavily against the horse's side. The Elf stood a moment thus, breathing hard, and then straightened.

Aragorn watched from the corner of his eye as he bent over his horse's girth, pretending to check the buckle. Legolas walked with a stiff, unnatural gait, wholly different from the fluid grace with which he usually moved. When he stumbled while guiding Arod down the bank to the stream Aragorn took three steps before he caught himself, fists clenched and his fingernails digging into his palms as he held himself back.

Legolas did not want him. He had offered his help and been refused. All that Aragorn could do now was to respect his wishes and wait, though every pain-filled step that Legolas took was like a dagger to his gut.

Gimli was not so restrained. The Dwarf clambered down from his cart with a grunt and homed in on Legolas like a hound to the scent, his stick tearing through the long grass as he went. "You can't go on like this," he announced, his voice carrying over the confusion of the horses and Men around them.

Legolas ignored him. He had Arod in the stream now, standing calf-deep in the water as the horse drank. Gimli splashed in after them.

"You're sick. Everyone can see it. You should ride in the cart with me. You can have a rest, get your color back. Mahal knows you look like you're on death's doorstep."

Legolas said nothing, but Aragorn recognized the stubborn set of his jaw. Well-intentioned though he was, Gimli was approaching the Elf in exactly the wrong way.

Seeming to recognize this, the Dwarf switched tactics. "I could use the company," he offered. "This wound of mine aches something fierce. You could check the dressings for me."

Another time this admission of vulnerability might have worked. But it was too late now. Legolas was on alert, and his pride was at stake.

"I am no healer," Legolas said. He did not look at Gimli.

"Then keep me company," Gimli said. "Come on, it's a long way to Dol Amroth."

"Neither am I a nursemaid," Legolas said. He kept his gaze on Arod. "And I will not be carried like a suckling infant before the Men of Gondor."

"Here now," Gimli began, offended, but Aragorn broke in.

"If I may," he said, and both Elf and Dwarf turned to look at him. "The men wish to make a request."

Gimli's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

"It is their custom to honor those who fight for Gondor. This escort is not just for the Prince of Dol Amroth and his Knights. They are here also for the lords of Rohan, Ithilien and Aglarond. Look around – the flags are unfurled, every horse's mane is braided, every man is freshly shaved and every boot is polished. Their duty is their honor, and they take it seriously."

"Lot of frippery if you ask me," Gimli grunted. "It's a wonder the horses can walk weighted down by all those draperies and such."

"Customs differ, Master Dwarf," Aragorn said. "For instance, they know that the traditions of the Elves are not their own, but still it seems strange to their eyes that in the midst of all of this the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen rides upon a bare horse."

Legolas inhaled sharply. "Customs do differ, my lord," he said. "I have encountered Men from Rohan to Dol Amroth, and never did I ride in any manner but as I do now."

"Yes," Aragorn said. "Of course you may do as you choose and none will gainsay you. But in this circumstance, as we ride to honor Prince Imrahil and his Knights according to _their _customs, might you consider bending yours? It would be for this one time only, Legolas, as a favor to the men."

It was a transparent ruse, he knew, and Legolas would see through it instantly. But it offered the Elf a chance to accept some comfort with honor. Gimli was right: he could not go on as he was now. Wholly apart from whatever mental or spiritual suffering Legolas endured, the long ride to Dol Amroth on bareback would be pure physical agony.

But Legolas was nothing if not stubborn, and as he hesitated Aragorn feared that he had played his hand too soon. Given his preference he would have placed the Elf in the cart with Gimli from the beginning, or better yet kept him from making this journey at all. This was a poor substitute, but even so he fretted that he should have waited until evening to make the offer.

Yet it seemed that the morning's trials were sufficient to temper even an Elf's pride. Legolas bowed his head. "I will do as the King commands."

Aragorn released a breath he had not been aware of holding. "It was a request, not a command," he said, but he signaled quickly to the Master of Horse lest Legolas change his mind.

The saddle had been stored in one of the supply wagons at the end of the train along with the rest of the replacement tack, horseshoes and other gear. Aragorn hoped that Legolas would assume that it was simply part of the company's supplies. If he noticed that it was more heavily cushioned than most, or that the seat's leather was dyed a deep red while the drapes were the traditional white, he said nothing.

Arod snorted and sidestepped on the grass as they lifted it onto his back. Going to gentle the horse, Aragorn cast a glance over his back and saw that a patch of white hairs was stained red-brown. Legolas' tunic fell far enough past his hips to hide any other sign of injury, but Aragorn knew that his preparations had not been amiss.

Arod whinnied and tossed his head above Aragorn's reach. Legolas joined them, laying a hand on Arod's neck as the horse huffed his breath and butted him in the chest. Then Arod stood quiet while they cinched the saddle in place.

"At least you need not use a halter on him," Gimli said comfortingly.

But Legolas shook his head. "I cannot communicate with him through a saddle. My voice will not be enough: he must bear the bit also."

Aragorn stood back as they brought the bridle and reins. Legolas took them and slipped the bit into Arod's mouth himself, speaking softly to the horse all the while.

Something twisted in Aragorn's stomach as he watched. _How is it that everything I do only makes things worse? It is for his benefit, I know it, and yet even this seems another cruelty._

Gimli came to stand beside Aragorn. He spoke without turning his head. "Was it the Men of Gondor who made this request, or you?"

"I am a Man of Gondor," Aragorn said.

"Hmph." Gimli folded his arms across his chest. "He'll not thank you for it."

"I know."

They stood silent while Legolas fitted the bridle over Arod's ears. Aragorn had never seen him use tack before, but the Elf seemed to know what he was doing. Arod's ears were back as he worked the bit between his teeth, but Legolas never faltered.

"Bloody horses," Gimli muttered as if to himself. "Bloody horses and damn fool Elves . . . he won't even admit that he's hurt. He survives everything else only to kill himself on the ride to his precious sea . . . well, I'll thank you for him. For both of us. Thank you."

"Thanks are not needed," Aragorn said. "He is my friend also."

"He _was _your friend," Gimli corrected him. He shot Aragorn a sidelong look. "Do not think that a little kindness now outweighs your culpability in this. He'd not need it at all if it were not for you."

It was a moment before Aragorn could speak. His voice was strained. "I know, Gimli. Not an hour goes by that I do not know it."

Gimli nodded once. "Good. Because even if your Council has forgotten that I have not. Even if the Queen and Faramir and Éomer and all of your people forget, I will not. I am here, watching you. And my axe is still sharp."

*~*~*

They reached Dol Amroth on the afternoon of the fifth day. Aragorn had set a moderate pace, mindful of the solemn burden they carried. He also had some idea to spare Legolas the rigors of a hard ride, but if the Elf suffered after that first morning he hid it well. He rode with back straight and head held high, his weight resting on his stirrups. Arod continued to protest each morning when they saddled him, but Legolas seemed able to control the fiery horse nearly as well with bridle and reins as he had with his voice and body.

A procession from Dol Amroth came out to meet them as they approached. They were led by a captain clad in blue cloak with a clasp fashioned in the likeness of a silver swan. The men who followed him were of grim demeanor, and some cried out in grief when they beheld the long line of wagons bearing the fallen Knights of Dol Amroth.

The captain bowed low to Aragorn, Éomer and Lothíriel before going to the wagon that carried the simple casket of Imrahil, covered by a cloth woven in silver with the Prince's coat of arms. He looked long on it in silence, and when he turned away his weathered face was set in deep lines.

"Our brightest star is lost, and the world is dark this day," he said. "Would that I had gone with him!"

"You also fought for Gondor, and at his command," Aragorn said. "Your service will forever stand in honor to his memory."

The captain shook his head. "Ours was the lesser battle," he said. "We had scarcely engaged the pirates at Umbar when Éomer King arrived. We would have gone with him when we learned of the attack on Minas Tirith, but Imrahil had bidden us to safeguard the coast. The armies of Gondor and Rohan seemed sufficient for the enemy."

"They were," Aragorn said. He did not elaborate upon the chain of events in the battle for Minas Tirith. "The valour of the Knights of Dol Amroth will go down in legend. Already songs are being written of Prince Imrahil's charge into the very heart of the enemy."

The captain gave a wan smile. "I would like to hear them, Your Majesty. But now you are weary, and my Prince would think it ill if I kept the King waiting."

The Knights fanned out along both sides of the procession as they approached the city. Their captain rode alongside the wagon bearing Imrahil at their head. At the sea road that led into the main city they separated, the Knights escorting the wagon drivers and soldiers away to the burying grounds while the royal party went on to the palace.

Dol Amroth was a city of contrasts. Long centuries serving as Gondor's only sea port and guard of the southern border had given its people a sense of pride and self-reliance to rival that of the Rohirrim. The city had no surrounding wall, but was bordered by the sea to the south and west and built high upon a rocky peak that presented a sheer back of limestone to the north and east.

The walls of the houses were crusted white with salt from the constant spray, but here and there among the stones a shell or a colored bit of glass glinted in the fleeting sun. Even in the lowest part of the city the houses were tall and of clean lines, and though their windows were little more than arrow-slits each one was embellished with a carving of graceful filigree or colored glass.

The overall effect was that of a high-born lady in a tattered gown, whipped by winds of storm and war but still clinging to the elegance of ages past.

The palace was set a little apart from the city, at the mouth of the bay where its strong walls could provide shelter from an attack by sea. As they approached it a flock of seagulls rose up from the rocky quay shrieking their raucous cries. Aragorn turned instinctively to look at Legolas. Gimli did the same.

Legolas hardly glanced at the gulls. He who once had stood motionless and with weapons forgotten in the midst of battle, struck dumb by the distant cry of a single gull at Pelagir, now barely seemed to register their presence. He turned one searching look past them to the sea that crashed and foamed against the quay, and then looked away.

A trickle of unease curled into Aragorn's stomach. It increased when they dismounted and Legolas allowed a stablehand to lead Arod away. Aragorn could not remember a time when the Elf had not insisted on tending to his horse himself, but now he seemed distracted, almost uncaring. Arod laid his ears back at the stranger's approach, but constrained by his bridle the willful horse had no choice but to follow.

A large party of servants stood ready to meet them on the palace steps. After paying due respect to the King their attention was swiftly focused on their princess, Lothíriel. The young Queen had composed herself with royal patience during the slow journey from Minas Tirith and the formal greetings upon the plain and in the city. But at last her façade broke and the girl ran forward to be swept into the arms of a matronly nurse. The servants swiftly closed around her, and Faramir and Éomer by extension, leading them away into the palace.

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli followed more slowly. The servants escorted them to their chambers in the guest quarters. Legolas was given a small room at the far end of the palace, with windows looking south and west over the sea. It was the same that he had had when they last passed through Dol Amroth, Aragorn recalled. It seemed that the servants were accustomed to receiving the Elf there, and Aragorn wondered how often Legolas had visited Dol Amroth in the years since the War, leaving his friends unknowing.

Aragorn was assigned spacious quarters next door, with a receiving room separate from the bedchamber and a bath fit for his rank. He cared little for the trappings of power, but was glad for the suite's proximity to Legolas' room. He could do nothing without the Elf's permission, but all the same he was determined that Legolas would not be abandoned entirely to his own devices here, so near to the sea.

Gimli looked at this arrangement and chose as his quarters a room that lay directly between Aragorn's and Legolas'. It was a narrow chamber, scarcely wide enough for its single bed, with only one arrow-slit window at the far wall for light. The servants protested, saying that it was intended as quarters for the personal valet or nurse of visiting nobility, not suitable for a lord of Gimli's stature.

But Gimli was adamant. He would have that room or he would sleep on the floor in Legolas' chamber, he said, but nothing else. Legolas actually roused from his fugue at that, turning a look of alarm upon the Dwarf.

In the end the servants yielded to Gimli's will, as Aragorn had known they would, and set to hauling a bath and fresh linens to the tiny room. Legolas retired to his quarters, closing the door firmly behind him, and Aragorn was left alone in the drafty privacy of his great chambers.

The stone walls deadened sound from outside, though he could still hear Gimli's muffled instructions to the servants filling his bath. Aragorn bathed quickly, glad to wash the dust of the road from his hair and body, and then dressed in a simple tunic and leggings for supper. He took his knife and a small mirror to trim his beard by the light of the window. Gimli's voice had ceased, replaced by the distant sound of splashing from the Dwarf's room.

The wind was picking up outside. It rattled the glass as Aragorn balanced his mirror against the window, and he paused to look out over the white-capped bay. Clouds were massing in the west. They piled up above the horizon, their vast and silent blue-black columns lit from beneath by the westering sun. There was yet three hours until sunset, by which time Aragorn estimated that the clouds would fill the sky.

It was going to storm.

Legolas and Gimli failed to appear for supper. The state banquet was a quiet affair, the company subdued. At the head of the hall sat Lothíriel with the Kings of Gondor and of Rohan upon her right and left. The loss of her father and the trials of the past weeks had forged a change in Imrahil's daughter. She had endured uncertainty and fear, grief and loss, and had witnessed the terrors of both birth and death. Life held little fear for her any longer.

She sat upon her father's chair with the cool poise and grace of a daughter of Númenor, and when she stood to take the cup of farewell the company rose with her.

"My father died as he had lived: in the service of Gondor," she said in ringing tones. "His Knights gave their lives willingly to protect our homeland. Let their sacrifice not be in vain. As we come together now to honor them, let us also renew the bonds of loyalty and love between us, Men of Gondor and Rohan, Ithilien and Dol Amroth. Let no enemy tear us asunder, and let no one forget Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth!"

"Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth," the company roared back to her, and drank.

A minstrel stepped forward to sing a ballad of Knights of the Silver Swan. As the company settled back into their chairs Aragorn bowed to Lothíriel and slipped away.

It was hardly unusual for Legolas to avoid a crowded gathering of mortals, Aragorn told himself as he climbed the stairs from the banquet hall. The Elf had always preferred the freedom of the wild over confining walls, solitude over the company of all but his closest friends.

But Imrahil was his friend. It was not in Legolas' character to forget the honor due to a Prince and brother in arms. And he had been more distracted and distant than ever since they came to Dol Amroth. The shadow over him was growing darker: Aragorn could feel it even without the healing trance. He remembered the emptiness in Legolas' eyes as he had looked at the sea, and shuddered.

Aragorn had requested that no guards be posted in the guest quarters. He met no one as he turned down the long passage to their rooms. He knocked on Legolas' door, his heart thudding in his ears, convinced that there would be no answer. He was convinced that Legolas had already gone down to the sea.

"Who is it?" Gimli's gruff voice answered, and Aragorn's knees went weak with relief.

"Aragorn," he said to the door. "Gimli, do you need help?"

"Well we don't need _you_," came the reply. "Go away."

Aragorn sighed. "Gimli please. Is Legolas all right?"

There was a pause, and the sound of boots crossing a stone floor. Something metallic clinked. Then the door opened. Gimli stood there, his feet set in battle stance and his axe at the ready. His dark eyes glinted balefully, and the red fringe on his cheeks seemed to make him somehow more menacing.

Gimli glared up at Aragorn for a long moment before he spoke. He was angry, but with the skill of long years of practice Aragorn saw past Gimli's anger to the frustration and fear that lay at its core. Gimli had no wish to allow Aragorn anywhere near Legolas, but he did not know what else to do.

"He's in a bad way," he said at last. "Don't make it worse."

He stepped aside. Legolas was seated upon the narrow windowsill at the far end of the room, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was barefoot, clad in a linen shirt and leggings, his hair still unbraided from his bath. The window was opened wide to the blackened sky, the fading sunset buried under the weight of clouds. The rising wind whipped Legolas' unbound hair, wet from the spray of waves crashing forty feet below. For that one moment Aragorn was glad to see his friend in such a familiar, heart-stoppingly precarious pose.

Then Legolas turned his head. His eyes looked into Aragorn's, and in them Aragorn saw such emptiness, such utter loss and despair that it stole his breath. He staggered, reaching blindly to support himself against the wall, the strength fleeing from his legs before that awful darkness.

Legolas smiled, and his fair face seemed to distort in the strange light, his lips drawing back into a rictus. "I am fine, Elessar," he said. "You see, it as I thought. I have lost the longing for the sea."


	49. The Tempest

**A/N:** I had way, WAY too much fun writing this chapter. That probably warrants a warning of some kind.

**WARNING:** This chapter contains scenes of non-consensual m/m kissing, cussing, and violence.

l

"Imagine there's no heaven."

– John Lennon

Chapter 48: The Tempest

"You've lost it? What do you mean you've lost it?" Gimli said. "How can you _lose _the sea-longing?"

"The same way that I contracted it, apparently," Legolas said. "It came upon me unlooked for and unasked at Pelargir, and it has abandoned me in the same manner."

"That doesn't make any sense at all!" Gimli snapped. He was pacing Legolas' small room, rubbing the heel of one hand against the stubble on his cheek. "You heard the gull at Pelargir, that's how you got it. There's no trigger for you to _lose _it, unless you were bitten by a sand-crab in Harad and contracted land-longing as a result."

"I know of no method by which the call of the Valar, once heard, might be unheard," Aragorn said. "There is lore in the House of Elrond of Sindar who resisted the summons, some for many years, but all sailed in the end. I have never heard of any who lost the longing even for a day."

"Perhaps because the remedy is not one that any would choose to take," Legolas said.

"What do you mean?" Gimli said.

Legolas was silent for so long that Aragorn thought he would not answer. His face was turned away from them as he sat in the windowsill, looking out into the darkness over the bay. There was a thunderous, oppressive feel to the air.

"It was the only thing that I could think of," he said at last. "When Dragaer . . . when the sea-captain took me in his quarters I could not bear it. My _faer_ would flee rather than be broken by a mortal Man. So I was not."

Gimli stopped pacing to stare at him. "You were not?" He paled, looking from Legolas to Aragorn and back again. "I – Thranduil said that I – but Legolas, you know I never meant to –"

Legolas turned his head to look at Gimli. His eyes were bleak, but his lips curved in a weary smile. "No, elvellon. It was not your actions that caused me harm. You came into my mind uninvited, it is true, but I could yet have defended against you – even killed you; and I would have done if you sought to hurt me. The images you unleashed were only memories, and they did you more harm than I."

Gimli looked relieved. "Then what . . .?"

"The sea," Legolas said. His head dropped forward onto his knees. "The sea. Its call was the only thing strong enough to overpower the reality of what was happening to me. So I gave myself to it, and in my mind it _was _my attacker."

Aragorn's breath caught as the import of those words struck him. He braced himself with a hand against the cool stone of the wall. His heart was pounding, his breathing weak in the hollow of his chest.

Legolas gave a ragged laugh. "From the beginning ours was a lovers' mummery, danced to the music of the waves. But never did I imagine that it would end so soon, or be consummated in such a manner!"

"Stop it," Gimli said sharply. "That isn't true, Legolas, and you know it. You said it yourself: you only _thought _it was the sea. You couldn't face the truth and survive, so you fought back with every weapon you had. That's just good tactics. But Dragaer's dead. You _know _it was him, whatever else you told yourself before, and he can't hurt you now. So just stop it."

"Gimli," Aragorn said. His voice was hoarse, his throat strained as if he had been screaming. He coughed. "Gimli, imagine for a moment that the way you perceive something _does _affect its reality. For an Elf, the mind and body are bonded so strongly that what one experiences _is _real for the other. Whether Legolas knew the truth or not does not matter. At the critical moment he _willed _it to be the sea, and it was."

"But it doesn't make any _sense_," Gimli said. "You're talking about the _ocean_ for Mahal's sake. It's a body of water. How could it . . .?"

"The longing is not for the sea itself," Legolas said. "It is for the place beyond and all that it represents: peace, and healing, and home. It is that desire which transcends all other powers in Middle-earth."

He drew a shuddering breath and passed a hand over his eyes. "It is the deepest, oldest bond laid upon an Elven soul: the refuge that has been a hope to the Elves since the time of our first awakening. And it is _that _which assaulted my mind and _faer _when Dragaer took my body."

"Wait a minute," Gimli said. "Wait, are you saying . . . what are you saying?"

"When an Elf –" Aragorn began, and stopped. His throat stung with rising bile. He swallowed hard. "For an Elf the act of rape is as much a mental and spiritual attack as it is a physical one. Most cannot survive it. They reject bodily life and answer the Valar's call, fleeing to the last refuge beyond the sea."

Legolas looked at him. "So you knew," he said.

Aragorn dropped his eyes, ashamed. Legolas turned back to Gimli.

"But I clung still to this life. I perverted the Valar's call: I took the last refuge and made it into a source of horror, and that cannot be undone. The sea's comfort is lost to me."

"But you did it to save us!" Gimli said. "Arwen, and me, and Gondor – the whole bleeding country owes its life to you!"

Legolas shrugged. "It is fitting," he said. "I survived for the sake of Middle-earth, and in Middle-earth I must remain."

"You mean you're trapped here?" Gimli shook his head. "But Thranduil said that you had to sail. To be healed, you have to sail."

Legolas did not answer for a long moment. When at last he spoke his voice was very low and he kept his eyes averted, avoiding the Dwarf's gaze. "It seems that I am not meant to be healed," he said. "Gimli, this is not easy for me . . ."

"Not easy for you?" Gimli roared. "Not easy for _you?_ You sit there and tell me that you're going to what, just suffer for the rest of your life – _forever_, in other words– and you say that it isn't _easy?_ You know what I say to that? You're giving up. You came this far and you're just giving up. Well to Mordor with that! You are getting on that ship and you are going to bloody Valinor if I have to row you there myself!"

"It does not work like that," Legolas said. "Without the longing to guide me I could sail until the breaking of the world and never find the Straight Road."

"Then we'll put you on a boat with some of Círdan's folk! _They _can steer the ship and you can just sit tight until you get there."

Legolas sighed. "Here or in the Blessed Realm it will make little difference. There is no healing for me there. I forsook the Valar's blessing, and they in turn have forsaken me."

"The Valar be damned!" Gimli bellowed. He coughed, pressing one hand to his chest, and with the other pointed a stubby finger at Legolas. "What you did wasn't just to save your own life; it was a _sacrifice _to save _us_. If they can't understand that then they can go to the Void with Morgoth, the whole bloody lot of them!"

He pivoted on his heel and headed for the door. At the threshold he paused and looked back over his shoulder. "You stay here. I'm going to the shipyard. We are going to _fix _this." Grabbing his axe from where it had been leaning against the doorframe he went out. The door slammed shut behind him.

In the silence that followed Aragorn stood very still, the blood thrumming in his ears. In the rush of new outrage Gimli seemed to have forgotten his mistrust of him, at least for the moment. Almost it felt as if they were the three hunters again, united against a common foe.

Then Legolas lifted his head. "Do you require me further tonight, my lord?"

Aragorn's heart faltered. "Eru, Legolas," he managed. "After all that has happened, must you continue this cruelty? I am _sorry _for what I did. If I could give my life to undo it I would. Dragaer came into my _mind_. Can you not understand what that was like?"

Legolas regarded him steadily. "Forgive me, my lord," he said at last. "How callous of me to forget what the sea-captain did to _you._"

Aragorn looked away. "That is not what I meant," he muttered. "I only intended . . . I'm sorry. I know that it means nothing now, but I am sorry. I swear by all the Valar that I never meant to hurt you."

A gust of wind blew through the open window, carrying the electric scent of the coming storm. The candles guttered in their holders. Legolas turned his head, looking out into the darkness.

"How strange it is," he murmured. "When I first heard the call at Pelargir I rejoiced, for I knew then that there was a home where I was welcomed, and loved, whatever else might happen. Later when I chose to linger in Middle-earth the longing became an agony within my heart. Many times I wished that it had never come upon me. I prayed to Manwë and to Elbereth that their call might be removed, for I could not bear to refuse them while I yet served another. And now it is gone."

"It is gone," he repeated, and his voice was perilously close to a sob. "There is no home, no healing for me under beech or elm or over sea. I have lost everything." His breath hitched, and his shoulders shook as his hands came up to cover his face.

Aragorn stood silent, uncertain. In all the years of their friendship, through all the trials they had endured, it was the first time that he had seen Legolas weep. He took a step forward, then another, and hesitantly laid his hand upon the Elf's shoulder.

Legolas stiffened. Knocking Aragorn's hand aside, he swung his feet to the floor and stood. Lightning flashed across the sky outside, printing the objects in the room in sharp relief. The stark light caught the tear-tracks on Legolas' cheeks. He swiped a hand across his face.

Thunder rumbled. The wind was gusting wildly now, tearing at the Elf's long hair. Two of the candles' flames streamed and went out.

"If you have no further need of me then I will leave you, my lord," Legolas said. His face was like a mask, dignity held close as the sheen of silver on mirrored glass.

Aragorn stepped back, letting his hand fall to his side. He nodded, numb.

Legolas crossed the room, his bare feet silent on the stone flags. At the door he paused. Half turning his head, his back to Aragorn, he said, "Tell Gimli that it was not his doing. Tell him . . . I am sorry."

He opened the door and went out. Aragorn stood frozen for a long moment behind him, and then his stunned mind processed what Legolas had said and he swore loudly. "Legolas, wait!"

He caught the Elf in the corridor outside. Grabbing Legolas' arm, he pulled him to a halt, swinging him around to face him. "Where are you going?"

Legolas flinched when Aragorn seized him, but made no move to defend himself. "Out," he said.

"To the sea?" Aragorn said. When Legolas did not respond he swore again, his hands tightening on the Elf's arms, shaking him. "Is that where you're going? To the sea?"

Legolas straightened. He stepped back, shrugging out of Aragorn's grip. "The Elvenking has no use for me. You have finished with me. The Valar have turned from me. I gave myself to the sea long ago. It is time to finish it."

"_Suicide?_" The horror of it robbed the strength from Aragorn's voice, so that it came as a bare whisper.

Legolas looked away. "I should have died rather than allow it to happen," he said. "I would have died . . . but I am still a warrior of Eryn Lasgalen. There is still some honor left to me. Give me that much at least. Let me go."

"So you can do what?" Aragorn said. "Finish what Dragaer began? No!"

Somewhere in the distance a door slammed. Voices sounded: a pair of ladies' maids returning from the banquet to their rooms. Aragorn grasped Legolas' arm. Yanking open the door to his suite, he pulled the unresisting Elf inside.

"There is no honor in that," he said, closing the door behind them. He grabbed the heavy bar and swung it into the latch with a solid thunk of wood on wood. "Not now. Not ever. It is a sin to take the life of one of Eru's Firstborn. I will not be a party to that, Legolas, and I will not stand by and let you die, whether by your own hand or any other."

"So now you have become an authority on sin," Legolas said. He stood with his hands at his sides and looked at the spacious compartment around them. The receiving room was warm, dimly lit by the fire banked in the hearth. The servants had removed Aragorn's bath and prepared the rooms while he was away. But they had left the candles dark.

Aragorn took a long taper from the hearth and lit it from the fire, keeping an eye on Legolas as he did so. "Eru knows I have enough experience on the subject," he said.

The heavy carpet muffled his footsteps as he kindled the lights. The window draperies were tied back and rain lashed the night-blackened glass. His reflection looked back at him as he lit a brazier that stood to ward off the chill from the largest window. Through the doorway to his left was the darkened sleeping chamber, where the bed bulked dimly in the shadows.

Legolas was watching him. "What now, my lord?" he asked. "Will you offer me a cup of wine?"

Aragorn grimaced. Before he could answer Legolas turned his head, apparently listening. "They have gone," he said. He reached for the door.

"Legolas wait!" Aragorn said. "Wait. Please. Think about this. You can still sail –"

"It would do no good," Legolas said. "I explained –"

"Elrond is there!" Aragorn cried. "And Gandalf as well. They can help you."

Legolas stopped. For a long moment he stood motionless, his head bowed. Then he drew a slow breath. "Why are you fighting this? Why can you not just let me go?"

"Because we are talking about your _life_," Aragorn said. "Eru, Legolas! There is still a way. Why will you not at least try?"

"Because I could not bear it!" Legolas whirled to face him, his hands clenching into fists. Lightning flashed again outside, followed an instant later by a low growl of thunder. The wind rattled the windows.

"That way would mean that I must go crawling to Elrond to beg his help, and I must tell him of my failure, and every detail of my humiliation. He would consult with Mithrandir, and so I would be called to repeat it all for his hearing. There would be discussions with Elrond's healers. The healing he offers cannot be done without going back into the injury, so I must needs submit myself to his touch and relive it all again, and again, and _again_, and I cannot!"

"I will not," he added more quietly. "As yet Lord Elrond knows nothing of this. I would have it remain so, that when I die there will be one person who remembers me as I was and not as I have become."

"So you choose to die rather than take the chance that you might live," Aragorn said. "Gimli was right. You are giving up. You defeated Dragaer but you will not fight to save yourself!"

"There is nothing left for me to fight for!" A window banged open in a howl of wind. Legolas spread his hands as if to take in the room, the storm, and the whole world around them. "Arwen is safe. Gondor is safe. You are secure on your throne. Eryn Lasgalen is at peace. I am not _needed_. Why must you keep me here to torture me?"

"Because I need you!" Aragorn shouted. He caught himself, shaking, and forced his fists to open. He continued more calmly. "Were it not for you Minas Tirith would now be overrun. Were it not for you I might . . . there is no telling what I might have done, to Arwen, to Faramir . . . You saved me, Legolas. You saved us all. Will you turn your back on them? On Gimli? On Arwen? Your life has worth greater than just your skill with the bow and the blade. There are people here who care about you. There are people here who need you."

Legolas stared at him. "You need me," he said softly. "Yes. I have seen _exactly _how you need me."

Aragorn looked away. "Don't," he said.

"Why not?" Legolas said. He paced forward, placing one foot deliberately before the other. "I am already broken. Dragaer took everything from me. _You _took everything from me. Why should you not have my body as well?"

He was a hand's breadth away. Aragorn's breath had ceased. His heart was hammering. Legolas pressed the flat of one hand against his chest. He slid it slowly up to the junction of Aragorn's neck.

"Why not?" he said again.

Aragorn knocked his hand away. "Stop it," he said. "Valar, Legolas . . ."

"We have already established that the Valar have nothing to do with this," Legolas said. "I am forsaken. Even were I to cast myself into the maw of the sea Mandos would not have me. Yet you say my life has worth. If so, it is because you command it so. So command it. Command me."

Aragorn backed away. He was trembling. "No," he said. "This is madness."

"Ah, and you are the expert on that as well," Legolas said. His face was lit with fey humor, though his eyes were still dark. "But you bade me swear an oath to you, Elessar, and I have not forgotten."

His hands moved to his collar, unbuttoning his shirt. The bruises at his throat were finally beginning to yellow, save for one livid mark upon the juncture of his neck. That one was still as fresh as it had been the night that Aragorn had made it.

"There is no honor left for me in life or in death," Legolas said. He pulled his shirt back to bare his chest and neck. His hands dropped to the fastening of his leggings. "What reason is there for me to stay, then, save as your whore?"

"Stop it!" Aragorn shouted. "Stop it, stop it, _stop it!_" he grabbed Legolas' arms, pulling his hands away. "I told you, it wasn't me! Dragaer did this to you, to me. He was inside my mind. I never intended any of this!"

"You _did!_" Legolas shouted back. "Do not lie to me! Dragaer told me himself: he first tried to turn you against Arwen, but he could not! He could not! You resisted, you were too powerful for him. But for _me _you did not resist. You _wanted _it."

"No!" Aragorn said. "I never –"

"Morgoth's Void, Aragorn!" Legolas swore. "I am sick of your lies. I am sick of _you_. Your gaze, your touch, your scent that I cannot get off of my skin – I am sick unto death of it but I cannot die! You bid me to stay, and to fight – how _dare _you. You have not the courage to face your own heart, but you presume to order mine."

The open window was swinging madly, banging against the wall. The wind swept the loose parchments from the desk, blowing them around the room. All of the candles had gone out. Legolas' face was white with fury, alternately lit by the fire and by flashes of the lightning outside.

"You would order me to remain like this for an eternity, and you cannot imagine what even a single hour costs me," he said. "You knew that what you planned meant death for an Elven _faer, _but you did not reckon what it would mean to _live._ You know nothing of the pain, of the humiliation, of facing a crowd of ten thousand and knowing that they _all know_ how you are defiled. You know nothing of what you have done – but you will. By Elbereth I swear you will."

He shoved Aragorn backward. Aragorn stumbled, his heel catching on a fold in the carpet. He half-fell against the wall, his head striking painfully against the stone, and then Legolas' hands were on him, gripping the back of his neck, and Legolas' body was crushed against his, and Legolas' mouth was on his, hard and demanding as the waves that battered the shore outside.

Aragorn struggled, reaching up to grasp Legolas' wrists. With an effort he wrenched the Elf's hands away. "No," he gasped. "Legolas, stop!"

"You want it," Legolas said. He was breathing hard. His mouth was reddened, abraded by the friction of Aragorn's whiskers. "Admit it. You have always wanted this."

"No!" Aragorn caught his shoulders as he came forward again, pushing him back. "I loved you, Legolas, as one brother loves another. But my heart is given to Arwen. You know that!"

"This was never about love!" Legolas snapped. "This is about power. You claimed the Evenstar for your own, but you would master a Prince of the Sindar as well. In every way imaginable you would have me."

He grabbed Aragorn's arms and twisted, pulling him off balance as he hooked one foot behind his. Aragorn crashed to the floor with Legolas on top of him.

"So," Legolas gasped. "You have me, my lord. Now the Prince will master his King."

He braced a hand against Aragorn's neck. Powerful, bow-calloused fingers dug into Aragorn's flesh. His face flushed as the pressure grew, his lungs straining for air. The blood was roaring in his ears.

With his free hand Legolas tore open the lacings of Aragorn's tunic. He pushed the leather aside, sliding his hand under the shirt beneath. Aragorn's fists clenched as long fingers tickled the hair that trailed across his belly, down to the fastening of his leggings.

Legolas straddled his leg, forcing one knee between his thighs. Aragorn bucked at the touch, and Legolas' hand slipped from his throat to the floor. Aragorn rolled to his side, throwing the Elf off him. Legolas tucked his shoulder down as he fell, rolling in one quick motion to his feet again.

He spun and kicked as Aragorn was climbing to his feet, striking him in the chest. Aragorn flew backward, smashing into the chair that stood before the desk. Legolas lunged after him, and Aragorn lashed out wildly, catching the Elf with a fist just below the jaw.

Legolas staggered. Aragorn got to his feet, one hand pressed to the back of his head.

"Are you all right," he began, and then Legolas hit him with two swift rights and a left hook that exploded against his cheek and knocked him across the room and into the fireplace mantle.

Aragorn crumpled to his knees as stars broke across his vision. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. He spat into the hearth and ran his tongue over his teeth, checking that they all were still there. His face stung: the sword cut over his cheekbone had reopened. He touched it and his fingers came away red with blood.

Something moved behind him. He turned his head slowly, blinking his eyes to focus. A pair of bare feet stood at the edge of the hearthrug.

"Are you going to kill me, Legolas?" he asked. "Whatever you do, it will be nothing more than I deserve."

"What you deserve . . ." Legolas began, and then stopped. For a time he stood silent, and there was no sound but the hiss of rain and a trailing rumble of thunder. The storm was moving off. "I do not know what you deserve," he said.

Slowly he knelt. He brushed the hair back from Aragorn's face, his fingers trailing close to but not touching the cut on his cheek. "Tell me truthfully, Aragorn, if you can. In all the years that we have known each other, did you ever desire me?"

Aragorn closed his eyes. "I do not know," he said. "That I was aware of, in my mind, no. No. I loved Arwen from the moment that I saw her, and before her there were others . . . Elven maids I had no hope of ever winning, but as I neared manhood they appeared in my dreams."

He took a deep breath, opening his eyes and meeting the Elf's gaze. "You were my friend, a brother closer to me than Elrond's sons. I idolized you. Everything that you did: hunting, tracking, your skill upon the battlefield, the way you moved. I wanted to _be _you. The way you spoke, sang, laughed, breathed . . . the way you looked."

He reached up a hand, skimming the fine threads of Legolas' hair with the backs of his fingers. "Valar, Legolas, do you have any idea how it feels to be a sixteen-year-old boy with spots on his forehead and a best friend who is the fairest Prince in Mirkwood?"

Legolas moved his head away. Aragorn let his hand fall back to his side. "I loved you," he said. "I love you still. It is possible that some part of me desired more . . . but if so it was buried so deeply that I myself did not know it."

Legolas sat back on his heels. His hands were open in his lap. His shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, exposing the flat planes of his chest and stomach. "Then why did you not resist?" he whispered. "If you loved me as you say, why did you listen when Dragaer turned you against me?"

Aragorn sighed. "I did not realize it at first," he said. "What it meant. When I did . . . by then it was about control. I believed that I had to master you, for your own protection and for mine. I had to break you like a horse to the bit. The method did not matter."

He shook his head. "Or maybe it did. I do not know. It was madness, but everything that I can remember of that time was equally mad. The whole world seemed to be conspiring against me. I was so afraid, every hour I was afraid and there was no one to whom I could turn. Except for you. Except for in this way."

He fell silent. Legolas rose to his feet, paced a few steps to the open window. He caught the swinging frame and held it still. The fading breeze lifted tendrils from the disheveled mass of his hair as it fell over his shoulders and down his back.

"And this was the only way," he said.

Aragorn drew a slow breath, released it. "Yes," he said. "Legolas, I cannot swear that I never felt any desire for you. Eru, a man would have to be more than human to travel months alone in the Wild with you and never have . . . but I would not have acted on it. Even had I been aware I never would have acted on it. Your friendship is too important to me."

He turned his face away, staring into the fire. "Dragaer knew the depth of the love that I felt for you. But he did not understand the nature of it. He . . . I knew his mind too. Valar, I spent _months _seeing through his eyes, though I did not know it. He was intelligent, patient, cunning, ruthless . . . but he knew nothing of affection or loyalty except as weapons to be leveraged against those who felt them. He could not conceive of love without lust, allegiance without control. What I feel for you – what I _truly _feel for you, in my own mind and heart – was beyond his ability to imagine."

There was a long silence. Aragorn closed his eyes. His head was throbbing. He could feel a lump swelling above his left eye where Legolas had struck him. He was tired to his bones, exhausted by the weight of all that had been said and done this night.

There was a click as Legolas fastened the window. A pause, and then a hand touched Aragorn's shoulder. He lifted his head.

"I have no forgiveness to offer you," Legolas said.

"I do not ask forgiveness," Aragorn said. "I ask for nothing from you, Legolas, except that you live. Please. Even without the sea-longing there is yet hope in the Undying Lands."

"You ask nothing of me except that I bind myself to this living death for an eternity," Legolas said dryly. Then he sighed, looking toward the rain-washed window. The glass reflected wavering images of the room against the dark night outside.

"It would do no good in any case. I might escape this sickened body, but without the Valar's call I would remain as one houseless, forever wandering the shore but unable to cross to the Halls of Mandos. In time that would become as great a suffering as I now endure."

"But as it is now you might not have to endure it for long," Aragorn insisted. "You do not need the Valar's call to reach Tol Eressëa. Elrond is there, and the Lady Galadriel. They might help you."

Legolas bent his head. "Elrond is there," he said. "And so is my mother; and so are my grandfather and two of my brothers if Mandos has released them from his halls. Shall I go to them as I am now and tell them all that has happened to bring me thus? Could _you _do that?"

Aragorn was silent. Legolas hunkered to one knee, facing him at eye level. "I will not die tonight," he said. "I will remain in Middle-earth at least so long as you live. Do not ask more of me than that."

"But –" Aragorn began. Legolas stopped him.

"Enough," he said. "This is my choice. I also loved you once, Estel."

Aragorn gripped his arm. "I do not ask that of you," he said. "I would have you find peace, not live your life in torment. I owe you my sanity, my life, and my soul. I know what that cost you. I could not bear to take any more, that you should linger so for my sake, with nothing in return."

"You can do nothing else. There is nothing left for me in Middle-earth or over the sea." Legolas said. "You cannot change that, whatever you might wish. The price is paid and cannot be undone."

Then he paused, and tilted his head as if considering something. "But perhaps . . ."

"What?"

"When all is lost," Legolas said slowly. "When the body is broken and all chance for healing and peace and home is gone, and the gods themselves have turned their backs . . . perhaps there is one thing yet that remains."

"What is that?" Aragorn asked wearily, sick at heart. "What remains, Legolas?"

Legolas lifted his head, and a new light was kindled in his eyes. In that moment he seemed not the victim of rape and torment, not the object of lust and obsession, but as he had been in their friendship of old. He looked again the warrior Prince who had defended his home during centuries of war, who had given his bow and his skill in a quest to save Middle-earth, who had battled the forces of darkness and had felled a Nazgûl, who had chosen to serve for love of his people and his forest and for a Ranger who would become King.

"Me," he said.


	50. Of Life and Death

"The deeper the sorrow, the less tongue hath it."

_-- Talmud._

Chapter 49: Of Life and Death

There was a clatter of running boots in the corridor outside and something slammed into the door. The solid oak shuddered against the bar that held it fast. "Aragorn!" a deep voice bellowed. "Aragorn, you bastard! If you've laid a finger on him I'll kill you!"

There was another shuddering crash and the blade of an axe cleaved between the edge of the door and its frame. The wood splintered as it withdrew and then thudded deep into the heavy bar across the door.

"Gimli wait!" Aragorn shouted. "Wait! It's all right!"

"Like Mordor it is!" Gimli roared back. "You lying son of a whore! I turn my back for two minutes –"

The axe wrenched free with a squeal of metal on wood and smashed down again. The bar broke and fell in two pieces to the floor. The door crashed open. His axe held high above his head, the water streaming from his sodden hair and clothes, Gimli burst into the room.

He looked around, taking in the overturned chair, the parchments scattered across the rumpled carpet, and came to rest on Aragorn as he knelt with Legolas beside the hearth.

"_You_," he growled, and started forward.

Legolas rose to his feet. "Gimli, stop. Nothing has happened."

"Because I got here in time!" Gimli said. "Out of the way, Legolas."

Legolas took two steps and caught the axe shaft on the downswing. With a quick twist he wrenched it from Gimli's hands and threw it aside. "_Dainu!"1_

Gimli stumbled. Regaining his balance, he turned an incredulous look upon the Elf. Aragorn was frozen to the spot, his breath swift and shallow in his lungs.

Legolas glared at them both. "I am fine," he said. "I appreciate your concern, Gimli, but I do not require your protection."

"You're a damn sight less than fine," Gimli shot back. "Durin's beard, Legolas, look at you!"

Legolas glanced down. He pulled the collar of his shirt about his neck and began to do up the buttons. "I am no worse than I was before you left. But you have torn your stitches."

A thin line of blood was seeping through the fabric of Gimli's tunic. He touched it with his fingers and then shrugged. "It's only a scratch. What happened here?"

He looked at Aragorn. Aragorn raised a hand to his face, gingerly touching the swelling around his eye. "I . . . uh . . ."

"We were talking," Legolas said.

"Talking." Gimli looked from him to Aragorn and back again. Aragorn was getting to his feet, holding onto the mantelpiece for support. "Talking about what, exactly?"

"It does not matter," Legolas said. "It is past. Aragorn, I –"

"No, _damn it!_" Gimli shouted. "You are not going to put me off this time, Legolas. First there was that business with Faramir in the Tower, and when you woke up in the Houses, and the palantír. He bloody well _confessed _at the trial. I know the Corsair did the worst of it, but I saw for myself in your memories: Aragorn hurt you. Don't give me this nonsense about the sea, or mind-rape or soul-death or any of the rest of it. Just tell me what in the name of bleeding Morgoth is going on here!"

There was a ringing silence. Aragorn looked at Legolas. Legolas met his eyes fleetingly and glanced away. The fine planes of his face shifted as his jaw tightened. Finally he turned to Gimli.

"You ask much, elvellon," he said. "But . . . you have given much as well. I will say this once, for your ears and no other's."

He took a breath. "What you saw . . . was true in part. Aragorn did attempt . . . those things . . . while under Dragaer's sway. The sea-captain led him to hurt those closest to him: Arwen, and Faramir –"

"And you," Gimli said.

Legolas nodded. "And me," he said. "In each case he strove to find some weakness, an unguarded path by which he could penetrate Aragorn's mind. He drew upon the darkness that dwells in the heart of every man: fear, and doubt, and lust. He aimed to destroy Aragorn from within."

"He very nearly succeeded," Aragorn said quietly. "He would have succeeded, but for you."

Legolas looked at him. "No," he said. "It was . . . very bad. But Aragorn resisted. And in the end he was the stronger. So Dragaer was forced to finish it himself."

Gimli frowned. "But if that's so then why did you not say so? And why were you so sick after contacting him in the palantír? Thranduil said that you had started to fade! And when you first awoke in the Houses you were terrified, you said that you would kill Aragorn! And now – for Mahal's sake, Legolas look around! Is this nothing?"

His gesture took in the debris-strewn room and Aragorn's swollen eye. Legolas sighed.

"What is known by one's waking mind is not always the same as what is felt in one's body and heart, even for an Elf. I did not say that Aragorn did no harm. Only that he did not commit those injuries which so concerned the healers of Minas Tirith." He paused and then said very quietly, "Even the deepest hurts need not necessarily be physical."

Aragorn thought of the encounter with Legolas in the palantír. He thought of the dark times before Legolas had reached him, the months of fear, the watching, the waiting, and the traps that he had laid. _Do you trust me? Do you love me? Swear it. Prove it. Give yourself to me and let me know that you are mine._

A distant pain made him look down: his fists were clenched, the rough bitten nails of his fingers cutting deep into his palms. His stomach was churning.

"But why did he go to all that trouble?" Gimli said. "Dragaer. All this time mucking about with the palantír and all – he had an army for Mahal's sake! If he wanted to kill Aragorn all he had to do was ambush him sometime when he was traveling in the southlands."

"Killing me was the least of his ambitions," Aragorn said. "He wanted vengeance. I led the force that destroyed the Corsair fleet and killed his father. In his eyes I took from him his country, his birthright, his family and his people. He planned to repay me measure for measure, beginning by taking from me the people I cared for most. So ultimately I am responsible for all that has happened to you, to Imrahil, to Legolas . . ."

Legolas shot him a look. "There is one other thing for which you also bear responsibility, Aragorn. I would be dead now were it not for you. You saved my life, such as it is."

_"What?"_ Gimli looked from one to the other of them. "What do you mean?"

"Hope is not lost," Aragorn said. "I refuse to believe that, Legolas. You have survived this and you will be healed. We will find a way."

"You were going to kill yourself," Gimli said. His brows lowered. "Throw yourself into the bloody ocean, most like. By the Seven Fathers, Legolas, that does it! I have had enough of this. I let you go after Aragorn in the Tower and you got mixed up in this business with the palantír. I let you go to Harad and you nearly died. I let you go to the Tombs and you end up fading. I let you alone for an hour just now and you're talking about suicide. Well no more! From now on you are going _nowhere _without me. You hear me? You go to Mirkwood, I'm going with you. You go to Ithilien, I'm going with you. You go to bloody Valinor, I'm going with you!"

There was a pause. Legolas turned away, passing a hand over his eyes. "Gimli . . ."

"And don't tell me about damned restrictions of the blasted Valar!" Gimli raged. "I'm one of the Nine Walkers. We saved the world for Mahal's sake! That counts for something! If they shut me out then every worry and grief you've cost me will be on their heads, and much good may it do them! Let them see the trouble you are and they'll be _begging _me to take over!"

"Gimli," Legolas began again, and then stopped. He sighed. "All right."

"They let Frodo in, and Bilbo," Gimli continued. "Gandalf even took Shadowfax with him! That bloody horse never bore any Ring! So you can't tell me –" he stopped. "What was that?"

"All right," Legolas said. He shrugged. "It does not matter in any case. The Straight Road is closed to me."

"But that's what I came to tell you!" Gimli said triumphantly. "I was just talking with the master of the shipyard. They can't build you a ship to reach Valinor but they _can _give us as fine a boat as there is in Middle-earth. We could sail from here 'round the coast to the Havens. It'd take a month at least, and with all that time at sea the longing is bound to come back!"

There was a pause. Aragorn leaned against the mantelpiece, his hand pressed to the back of his head. Legolas stood motionless, his arms folded as he stared at the floor. Gimli beamed at him. For several minutes there was no sound but the patter of the rain outside and the gentle drip of Gimli's clothes upon the carpet.

At last Legolas spoke. "I appreciate all that you have done, elvellon. But this is beyond you. The sea-longing is gone. It will not return."

"Unless . . ." Aragorn said slowly.

"Unless _what?_" Gimli said.

Aragorn looked at Legolas. "The Valar's call was lost because the sea is no longer a refuge," he said. "But if its comfort could be restored . . ."

Legolas avoided his eyes. "There is no use in speculation," he said. "What's done is done, and I have made my choice. I will stay. There is nothing to be gained by speaking further of it."

"It was the Corsair who did it," Gimli said. "Made you use this power the sea has over Elves to defend against him. So if that defense were no longer necessary then it would be all right again, wouldn't it? The sea-longing would return and you could go to Valinor and be healed."

"This is pointless," Legolas said. "I do not wish to discuss it."

"But I'm right," Gimli said. "I am right, am I not? Legolas?"

Legolas' arms were wrapped around himself, his mouth thinned as if in pain. Finally he spoke in a tone of resignation. "It could not happen unless the perversion of the sea's refuge was somehow undone and its horror forgotten."

"Then we'll do that," Gimli said. "How?"

"We cannot," Legolas said. "It is impossible."

"Durin's Beard, Legolas, stop saying that!" Gimli snapped. "There has to be a way. What is it?"

Legolas turned his face away. He did not answer.

Aragorn took a deep breath. "If the injuries that – that the sea inflicted were healed . . ."

"That's why he has to sail," Gimli said. "Thranduil said that to be healed he has to sail."

"There might be some healing yet to be found in Middle-earth," Aragorn finished in a whisper.

Legolas turned his head sharply. Their eyes met.

"You?" Gimli said. "After all that you've done, you have the _gall _to suggest –"

"So after all you will extract your price," Legolas said. "For Gimli's life and mine. Will you hold me to my oath, my lord?"

Aragorn's voice caught in his throat. Mutely he shook his head.

"Consider well before you swear to that, Elessar," Legolas said. "For I will never agree otherwise."

*~*~*

True to Legolas' wishes they did not speak of it again. Gimli kept his word and stuck so close to the Elf's side that for the rest of their stay in Dol Amroth Aragorn never so much as glimpsed one without the other. Legolas seemed to tolerate the Dwarf's presence fairly well provided that Gimli did not try to touch him or to hinder his movements about the palace and grounds. So far as Aragorn could tell Gimli did not actually make good his threat to sleep on the floor of Legolas' room, but it was a near thing.

For his part Aragorn tried to give the Elf his space. Legolas had to know, as he did, what must happen next. Looking back, Aragorn felt as if all the years of their friendship had been building to this. All the times that he had saved Legolas and had been saved in return, all the times that Legolas had chosen to follow him and to support him even over the wishes of his father and the needs of his people, from the march to Harad to the joining of the Fellowship all the way back to that black day in Mirkwood when Aragorn had first laid hands upon his friend and called on the healing power within himself – all had been leading to this moment when he would repay Legolas' faith and make him whole again, even of the most grievous hurts that Aragorn himself had caused.

The thought terrified him. It was one thing to offer his aid in hopes of granting Legolas some measure of peace before he sailed to the Undying Lands. It was another matter entirely to place himself as the last defense between his friend and an eternity of torment.

What if he could not do it? Nay – how could he imagine himself capable of it? The shadow over Legolas grew heavier by the day. He could see it in the darkness behind his friend's eyes, in the pallor of his skin, in the eloquent tale of pain told by every guarded step, every catch of breath, every half-second too long that Legolas paused mid-stride with eyes closed and brows drawn together before continuing on.

Aragorn had _caused _that. How arrogant, how ludicrously arrogant would he be to assume that he could wave a hand and make Legolas well again. The injuries Legolas bore went deeper than anything Aragorn had before encountered. His physical wounds were only the superficial signs of the far greater damage done to his mind and spirit, of the fracturing of the bond between body and soul. How could Aragorn hope to counter that? What gave him the right even to try? After all that he had done, how could he ask Legolas to trust him again? And if by some miracle Legolas did come to him, if he tried and failed, then that would be yet another betrayal in the long line of cruelties that he had inflicted on his friend.

By all indications Legolas shared his doubts. _I will never agree_, he had said, unless Aragorn commanded it in payment for Gimli's life, for the oath he had forced upon the Elf on that terrible night in Harad.

The thought sickened him. Even beyond his natural inclinations, healing of this kind could only happen as a free choice between healer and patient. When Faramir had been lost after the pyre Aragorn had called to him, searching in the dark passages of his wounded spirit, but Faramir had answered of his own free will.

Aragorn could not order Legolas to submit. He _would _not. But the alternative was that he must stand helpless and watch as the friend he loved sank ever deeper into darkness and misery.

For as long as Aragorn lived, Legolas had said, he would remain. But for all the Elf's brave words he was dying now, fading before Aragorn's eyes. Legolas endured by the sheer strength of his will, but for how long? With every day the weight of shadow grew, the pressure bearing him down like a steel blade bent slowly, inexorably to the breaking point.

How long could he continue thus? A week? A month? How long could anyone survive it? And how long must Aragorn bear witness to his suffering . . . and do nothing.

*~*~*

The morning of Imrahil's funeral dawned cool and clear. The previous night's storm had washed away the grime from the walls and houses of Dol Amroth. The rising sun caught the glitter of raindrops in the windows and eaves, and every white stone and shell and bit of colored glass shone as though newly made.

The rocky shore was littered with driftwood washed up by the waves: great logs bleached white and pitted with salt, rotting sections of mast and barnacled planks still nailed to the curved hull of a long forgotten shipwreck, fragments of rope and nets tangled with vivid green seaweed.

Picking his way through the mess Faramir thought of the countless times that he had walked this shore as a boy. His mother had loved the home of her birth and returned as often as her husband would permit. They used to spend whole summers here, Finduilas and her two children, retreating from the noise and heat of Minas Tirith to the clean seaside.

Constrained by the duties of the Stewardship Denethor had remained in the city, so for whole months at a time Faramir would be free of the weight of his father's expectations, free of the silent, coolly assessing gaze, the constant balancing of the scales between himself and his brother.

He and Boromir would wander the shore for hours, climbing over and around the driftwood piled at the high tide line, prying limpets from the rocks, pretending that they were Princes of the Faithful Númenoreans living in hiding from the evil Ar-Pharazôn until they could reclaim their land.

As they grew older Boromir's interest in these games waned and he began to spend more and more time with the Knights of Dol Amroth, helping to groom their horses, watching their sparring practices, listening to their tales of glory on the battlefield. Five-year-old Faramir was not permitted to explore the seaside alone and Nurse complained that the uneven ground hurt her feet, so he was confined to the palace grounds with Boromir.

It was not a happy confinement. The warrior tales did not much interest Faramir, and Boromir, eager to appear grown-up before the Knights, disliked having his younger brother tag along. Unable to persuade Boromir to play with him, Faramir moped through the palace alone. Most of all he wanted to explore outside, and he grew cranky and irritable at being denied.

Occasionally his mother would take him with her on her sedate walks along the shore, but she never wanted to go beyond sight of the palace, and she grew nervous if he climbed on the piles of driftwood or the great rocks that were exposed when the tide went out. Faramir chafed under these restrictions and Mother grew frustrated with his rebellion, so that by the time they returned to the palace they were both tired and their tempers frayed. In later years Faramir realized that the adults must have discussed the situation and come to a solution, but at the time he was unaware of it. All he knew was that as the summer went on he found himself more and more frequently in the company of his uncle, Imrahil.

If Imrahil was anything, he was patient. He was more than patient enough for a five-year-old's questions and he always knew the answers. More than that, he was completely unperturbed by the mishaps that would have brought Mother running or made Father scowl in disapproval. When Faramir fell while climbing a steep slope to investigate the seabirds' nests Imrahil watched as he picked himself up, examined a scrape on his knee with mild interest, and told him to try it again. When Faramir slipped on a wet rock and plunged neck deep into a crevasse among the breakwater Imrahil fished him out and gave him the choice of returning to the palace or simply spreading his clothes out to dry and continuing to play in his smallclothes.

It was a liberating experience for Faramir, who found himself free to do as he liked for the first time in his life without interference from parents or nurse or older brother. Indeed Imrahil seemed so habitually calm, almost indifferent in comparison to Mother's doting care and Father's never-ceasing watchfulness, that Faramir thought at times that he _could _have been injured or swept away by a freak wave and it would not have troubled his uncle overmuch.

But as the summer wore on Faramir came to change his mind about that. Imrahil was always kind to him, in his own undemonstrative way, and if he was not emotional then he was also gentle and attentive. He had a dry way of speaking, of saying more than his words would seem, that reminded Faramir of Denethor. But there was a vein of deep affection beneath his uncle's surface that Faramir had not found in his father, and he reached toward it hungrily.

At Imrahil's side he learned the secrets of the plants and animals that lived along the seashore. He lay on his stomach and dangled his hand into tide pools to tickle the sea anemones, feeling the tiny sting of their tentacles like the petals of a flower sticky against his fingers. And when they did not go to the shore he would more often than not while the hours away in Imrahil's study, drawing with a stick of charcoal on a slate while his uncle's quill scratched quietly over his parchments, or watching with rapt attention while Imrahil's quick hands fashioned a slip of paper into the form of a bird or a ship or a deer.

He had been happy here, Faramir thought. Even in the dark years that had followed his mother's death Imrahil had been a constant light. In his uncle's quiet presence Faramir had found respite from the burdens of his brother's achievements, of his father's judgment, of his own expectations of himself.

His steps had carried him away from the shoreline to where the broken rock met the grassy fields of the mainland. Swift growing beach grass stood knee high, already dried a golden brown by the sun and the constant wind. Wildflowers bobbed on long stems: scattered slips of white, yellow and red amidst the bronze.

A hill rose here above the beach, offering a vantage point where as a boy Faramir had sat to watch the gulls diving over the bay. He climbed the slope now, stumbling a little over the uneven clumps of grass. He gained the summit, his breath coming hard in his lungs, and stopped. Legolas was standing a short distance away, looking out over the bay. Beyond him was Gimli. The Dwarf was stretched upon the grass, his head propped on a flat rock, his hands laced over his stomach and his axe at his side. He was snoring.

Faramir hesitated, thinking to retreat back down the hill, but then Legolas turned his head and looked at him. The Elf's gaze was neutral, neither welcoming nor forbidding, but having once been seen Faramir could not very well turn tail and leave.

"Good morning," he said. Legolas nodded and looked away. Faramir blinked, stung by this apparent rejection. He was about to retreat when the Elf spoke.

"It is beautiful."

Faramir paused. He looked past Legolas to the bay. The water rolled in slow swells and the surf was muted to a low roar. The far horizon was obscured by a bank of low fog that glinted white in the early sunshine. Gulls wheeled over the shore, their raucous cries carrying in the cool morning air.

"I have always thought so," Faramir said. "I used to come up here as a boy. It has not changed much."

"No," Legolas said softly. "It has not." He drew a breath. "I never really looked at it before. The sea. All my thought was turned toward it, at times it seemed as though I would be consumed by it, but I never truly saw it as it is, for itself alone. How odd."

"The sea has special meaning for the Eldar, or so I am told," Faramir said. He spoke cautiously, unsure of Legolas' reaction. From what Imrahil had described of the Elf's visits here before the sea was not merely significant for him. There was a power there that even Imrahil had not fully understood. It was a fascination bordering on obsession.

But Legolas only smiled, a little sadly it seemed to Faramir. "So I am told," he said. He turned to Faramir. "There were occasions when I was grateful for your uncle's hospitality. He was a great lord, wise and gentle to those who knew him, and a proud defender of his people and his country."

"Thank you," Faramir said. His throat was tight. "He would be honored to hear a Prince of the Sindar speak so."

"It is to honor him that I speak," Legolas said. "In him was the seed of Gondor made great again, even in the hour of its waning. We are all the poorer for his loss." He paused. "I regret the role that I played in causing his death."

Faramir blinked. He must have misheard that last statement. "I'm sorry?"

"I was a part of the ruse by which the Corsairs gained entrance to Minas Tirith," Legolas said. "Had they not done so it is doubtful that their army could have breached the walls. The battle in which Imrahil died might have been avoided."

"That was no fault of yours," Faramir said. He thought back to that fateful night, of the men standing silently before the gate, of the Corsairs' weapons piled to one side and the pale, cold figure stretched upon a makeshift litter in the flickering torchlight. _If only we had imprisoned them all from the start. If only we had not been so trusting . . . or not so mistrustful of Elessar. If only everything had been different._

Aloud he said, "There is blame to share, if one looks for it, but none of it is yours. If anything the fault is mine. I should have paid greater heed to King Elessar's warning."

"From what Gimli tells me you acted as any rational lord would," Legolas answered. "The Corsair party was only twelve and under guard. And Aragorn had given you no reason for trust."

"No," Faramir said slowly. "He had not." Something occurred to him then, and he cocked an eyebrow at the Elf. "I acted as 'any rational lord would' . . .? I seem to recall a tale of your father, who was not so lenient when confronted with a similar number of Dwarves in his Kingdom."

"Ah, that," Legolas smiled. "But my lord Faramir, who in all of our history has ever accused the rulers of Mirkwood of being rational?"

Faramir laughed. "In any case that episode ended better for you than this has for us, so who is to say that the Elvenking was wrong?"

They did not speak for a time. In the silence Gimli's snores grew louder, and then he snorted and turned on his side. He muttered something before falling into deeper sleep. Legolas turned his head to look at him. His eyes softened.

"He is standing guard over me."

Faramir smiled. "And doing an excellent job of it I see."

"Do not underestimate him. The climb up here taxed him greatly, but he would not be dissuaded. He would rise quickly if there were need."

"And woe befall any who opposed him," Faramir said. "I am not the man to do so."

They fell quiet again, watching the motion of the waves and the diving birds. Then Faramir sighed. "Dragaer played us all, didn't he? Right from the beginning. He knew how we would react and laid his traps accordingly."

Legolas did not answer for a moment. When at last he spoke his voice was soft, as though he were speaking to himself. "So it would seem. And in some cases he knew us better than we knew ourselves."

He shook himself and turned to Faramir. "If I may ask, what was it that made you believe that Aragorn had thrown off the Corsair's influence?"

Faramir thought. "I think I first knew it when he returned to Minas Tirith. He was filthy, exhausted, but his only thought was for the Queen, and for you. He was desperate to reach you."

Legolas flinched. It was a small movement but Faramir saw it. He continued quickly. "At the time I did not allow myself to believe it. I had been fooled by Elessar before and the stakes were too great. We arrested him. We brought him to trial, but by then it was too late. The Corsairs attacked."

"All according to plan," Legolas muttered. He looked up. "It was after the trial, then, that you swore allegiance to him?"

Faramir hesitated. "Not exactly," he admitted. "There were still questions to be answered, safeguards created so that Gondor could not again be put at risk by any one man. The Council gave Gondor's rule to both the King and the Queen . . . and to the Steward," he added as an afterthought. "But for myself I knew my heart's allegiance when I saw him with the wounded after the battle. He gave everything of himself in tending them. I saw him lay his hands on men writhing in pain, men whose limbs had been severed, men whose skin was burned black over most of their bodies, and I saw them look at him and smile. No man with evil in his heart could do that. He is Gondor's rightful King."

Legolas did not answer. For a while they stood silent, watching the bay while the growing sunlight sparkled on the water. The breeze ruffled their hair. Finally Legolas spoke.

"If you had to choose," he said. "If you had to trust Aragorn with that which is most sacred to you – if you had to trust him with your daughter's life, would you do it?"

Faramir blinked. "You speak hypothetically, I presume," he said. "If she were injured . . ."

"Yes," Legolas said. "If she were injured and in pain – great pain. You could aid her, perhaps keep her alive for a time, but you could not heal her. If you had to choose to care for her yourself or to give her into Elessar's hands – what would you do?"

"I would still be with her," Faramir began.

Legolas shook his head. "No. In this choice you would be helpless, unable to do anything against him. Once you give her to him you are powerless. You may watch as he does what he will with her, but you may not stop him."

"You speak as though I would have cause to stop him," Faramir said.

Legolas' gaze was intense. "You might," he said. "Hypothetically . . . you might."

Faramir took a breath. He thought of that night in the Tower, when Elessar had looked at him with a stranger's eyes and reached to draw his sword . . . and Legolas' hand had closed upon his wrist and stopped him. He thought of Aragorn's regret and grief in the aftermath of the battle. He thought of the warm weight of Finduilas as he held her in his arms, of her sweet smell and the surprisingly strong power of her grip upon his finger. He licked his lips.

"I would," he said. "I would do everything in my power to spare her that kind of suffering."

"Including giving her to Aragorn," Legolas said.

"Yes," Faramir said. "If there were any chance that he could save her, then yes. I would."

Legolas sighed. He looked away and in that moment his slender frame bent, his shoulders curving fractionally inward as he wrapped his arms around himself. "I think that you are braver than I am."

*~*~*

They laid Imrahil to rest that afternoon. The sun was shining in a sky scudded with white clouds and a fresh wind was blowing as the people of Dol Amroth gathered to bury their Prince and his Knights. The funeral train wound from the streets of the city along the sea road up to the high bluff where lay the burial ground.

They went on foot, commoners and nobility alike. Many wore strings of shells and pebbles around their ankles and wrists and these clicked together as they walked. It was said that the sound mimicked the clacking of bones and would alert the Valar to draw near, to receive the dead and to ward off the evil spirits that served Morgoth.

Lothíriel daughter of Imrahil was at their head with Éomer on her right and Faramir at her left. Elessar King of Gondor was there also, and Legolas Lord of Ithilien, and between them walked Gimli Lord of Aglarond leaning on his stick.

They came to the high place where rested the caskets of Prince Imrahil and his Knights upon the turf. A casket had been made for Imrahil, but that was a luxury that few of the Knights' families could afford. Fifty bodies wrapped in linen were laid across the bluff and beside each one there was a hole and a mound of dirt and rock. As the company climbed over the summit the stiff wind caught at their hair and cloaks, carrying the mingled scents of the ocean salt and of damp earth.

They gathered around the graves, each family to that of their own kin – for the men of Dol Amroth had dug them with their own hands that morning. They stood then in silence with heads bowed and for long minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the rasp of Gimli's breathing.

Then Lothíriel began to sing. Low and clear her voice rose, carried thinly on the wind. The tune was sweet and sad and somehow familiar to Aragorn's ears, though he could not quite place it. The words too hovered on the edge of knowing. They were in a language he did not recognize – not of the Common tongue, nor any Gondorian dialect he knew. Almost they sounded of Elven make, but there again not quite.

Then, as the last note trailed away, Legolas lifted his head. And as the Elf's clear tenor rose Aragorn caught his breath. For Legolas was singing not merely in answer to Lothíriel, but in completion of the song that she had begun. And now Aragorn recognized it: a mourning song so ancient that even the Elves referred to it only in the old ballads. The melody followed the same structure as Lothíriel had sung but built upon it, like a forest springing up deep and rich from where had stood a single sapling. The words were Quenyan, and where before they had been mere shadows of themselves, sounds with meaning forgotten, now they rang with the precise clarity of that tongue.

_The sun is gone, the moon forgot,_

_No light can come in shadow._

_Hark Lórien, give ear Nienna, and let Varda's stars be dimmed._

_For our Prince is lost, the land is dark,_

_And we must weep alone._

When the song ended Lothíriel turned to Legolas and though the tears streaked her face her eyes were shining.

"For generations beyond count have the people of Dol Amroth sung that song, and yet until this day I did not know its meaning. For this above all would my father thank you, and entreat you to write it out for us that it not be forgotten again."

"That will I be glad to do, for his sake and for yours, my lady," Legolas replied. "He was a great lord . . . and I was honored to call him friend."

The people came forward then to bury their Prince. Lothíriel cast the first shovelful of earth after the casket was lowered into the grave. Her white hands gripped the short handle tightly, dipping and lifting and turning the blunt blade. The wet earth hit the casket with a hollow thud. She did not flinch but stepped back and handed the shovel to Faramir. Then it was Aragorn's turn. He bent his back to lift the heavy earth, and as it thudded into the grave a vision came to him with such power that it stopped his breath.

It was not Imrahil that they were burying. It was Legolas.

He knew it for a certainty: he could see the Elf lying in the casket, his long hands folded around the bow of Lothlórien, the bow that he would never shoot again. He saw Legolas' hair spilling over his shoulders, his skin waxy, stretched over the prominence of his cheekbones, his closed eyes sunken. He saw the plain casket lowered here, where the sea's song would forever play to his unheeding ears. He saw Thranduil standing with the tears forgotten on his cheeks, staring over the bay while the wind tugged at his cloak and hair. He saw Gimli with chunks torn from his new-grown beard, eyes red-rimmed with grief and rage. He saw Arwen weeping with her hair unbound, streaming dark in the wind. He saw himself, his face lined and grey with age and misery, and he felt the force of his own grief and guilt and self-loathing like a sword thrust to cut him in two.

Then it was gone. Aragorn staggered. Éomer, taking the shovel from him, cast him a concerned look but Aragorn had no eyes for it. He stared about wildly and his gaze fell upon Legolas, standing between Lothíriel and Gimli exactly has he had been before.

Aragorn heart began to beat again. He felt weak with relief: it had not happened. Legolas still lived, there was still time. But he knew with a certainty that resonated deep within his bones: this was a vision of the Sight. It was what would come to pass if they continued on this path, if nothing were changed.

Feeling his gaze, Legolas lifted his head and met Aragorn's eyes. The Elf's look was direct, challenging, and Aragorn glanced away.

_Does he know?_ he wondered. Then he thought, _he is an Elf. Of course he knows._

All around him the people were filling in the graves of their loved ones, burying their husbands, fathers, sons – brave and loving men who would still be alive were it not for him.

Aragorn stood in the midst of them all and lifted his eyes to the heavens, where the wind drove the clouds in long sweeps across the blue sky and the gulls wheeled crying between the twin infinities of air and sea.

_Our Prince is lost, the land is dark . . . no light can come in shadow._ He thought of the words – _Legolas' _words – and his hands clenched unnoticed at his sides. _No. Not this time. I cannot bring back the dead but I will not lose him too. I will not._

He did not speak aloud. There was none to hear the oath of his heart but his own mind and the empty wind and the Valar themselves if they were of a mood to listen. But it was an oath nonetheless.

* * *

1 _Dainu_: Khuzdul, enough.


	51. Gathering the Pieces

"With Malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds."

– Abraham Lincoln

Chapter 50: Gathering the Pieces

Faramir was the last to leave. After the graves were filled the people gradually dispersed, trickling away in twos and threes down the hillside back to Dol Amroth. They lingered longest around the Prince's grave, but at last the strain proved too much for Gimli's wound and he departed, taking Legolas with him. Aragorn soon followed, after having first kissed Lothíriel and clasped arms with Faramir. At last even Lothíriel turned away, stumbling a little in her tears, with Éomer's strong arm wrapped around her for support.

As the sun sank down into the bank of clouds over the sea and the last of the mourners trailed away, Faramir was left alone. For a long time he stood silent, looking down at the rectangle of fresh turned ground while around him the shadows lengthened and the wind grew chill with the coming night.

Finally he knelt and touched the sunken earth. "There will be songs of your deeds," he said. "They will remember your valor and your wisdom for all the ages. I only hope –" the words choked off as his throat stuck. He swallowed hard. It was a moment before he could finish. "I hope that they will remember also your kindness."

He drew a steadying breath. "For myself there are no words," he said to the man who had been his uncle, his mentor, his friend – and, in the most secret imaginings of his childhood heart – his father. "Only . . . thank you."

He straightened quickly and turned away, and stopped. He was not alone after all. Lothíriel stood at the edge of the graveyard. She had sent Éomer and the others on ahead, but Imrahil's daughter stood waiting for him. She gave him a watery smile. He went to her and put his arm around her, his baby cousin who had had to grow up much too fast. For a long minute they simply leaned against each other in silence. Then together they went down the hill.

Behind them the wind caught and tugged briefly at a pale object left in the dark soil, a folded scrap of paper that should have been swept away but for the rock anchoring it in place.

It was a ship as light as air, with winged sails and a hull shaped like a swan.

*~*~*

Galemir was nervous. In truth he was absolutely terrified, but after a week of negotiations with the Gondorian court he had learned to hide it well. He stood in the center of the great throne room, feeling the eyes of the surrounding councilors upon him. They made his skin itch.

But they did not really matter. The oldest of them, a wizened man with watery blue eyes and trembling lips, sat with his hands folded on his stick and glared unblinkingly at Galemir each day as though imagining his head mounted above the city gate. But he did not really matter either.

All that really mattered in the world was the tall woman who sat upon the throne opposite Galemir and fixed him with a steady, penetrating gaze. She was Arwen Undómiel, Queen of Gondor and Arnor, and when Galemir had first laid eyes upon her he had thought that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He had learned very quickly that behind her perfect face there lurked a rapier sharp mind, and if he was to survive long in these negotiations he would do well to ignore the former and concentrate entirely upon the latter.

It had been something of a shock to learn that their captors were serious about negotiating with them at all. After the Captain's death Galemir had simply assumed that the remaining Corsairs were all to be beheaded. If he had allowed himself to hope for any other fate it would have been to be sold as a slave in Gondor or Rohan.

But it seemed that the Gondorians did not keep slaves or perform executions without trial. Galemir found this hard to believe, that their historic enemies would go so far even as to allow them to defend themselves in a court of law, but it appeared to be true. The councilors had been universally incredulous when he had hinted that they might do otherwise, although some had appeared willing to consider the prospect.

Once he recovered from his initial surprise Galemir had seen a glimmer of light in their situation. If the Gondorians would not execute their captives in cold blood then they must find some other way of dealing with them. That meant that he had some leverage, however slight, in determining his people's fate. Galemir seized it.

He had not the quickest wit, he knew, nor was he gifted in speech. He had joined the Captain after Dragaer began gathering the army at the border of Harad and had risen to second in command because of his organizational skills more than anything else – someone had to find a way to feed, arm and shelter six thousand men at the edge of a desert, and Galemir had been the one to do it.

The Captain had trusted him because he was steady, methodical and, Galemir knew, no threat at all to Dragaer's power. Before joining the army he had owned a small ship with a three-man crew that more often engaged in fishing than in piracy. He had little ambition for anything else, seldom had any ideas of his own, and lacked both the ability and the desire to command men's allegiances.

But here he was, thrust into the midst of the lords of Gondor, appointed spokesman for all his people simply because there was no one else to do it. Under the circumstances he was determined to do the best that he could. He only wished that his knees did not quake so much.

"The Corsair ships will be placed under command of Dol Amroth," the head of the Council, Lord Gryer, was reading from his notes. "Corsair sailors upon swearing allegiance to Gondor may apply to serve on board for wages to be paid at the same rate as wages for non-Corsair sailors. Corsair crew may not number more than one-third of the total ship's complement. No Corsair may be promoted in rank above non-Corsair crew. No Corsair –"

"My lords, wait," Galemir said. "That is unfair."

The head of the Council stopped reading and looked at him with eyebrows raised. Galemir took a breath. "Our men are the better sailors. You cannot expect them to serve as midshipmen forever."

"They cannot be placed in command of men of Gondor!" said the old man, Garwick.

"Why not?" Galemir said. "If they have sworn loyalty to Gondor?"

"Oh yes, the oath of a pirate," sneered Garwick.

"You must put some trust in our oaths, else there is no reason for this negotiation," Galemir said. He felt rather proud of himself for this.

Queen Undómiel raised an eyebrow. "More to the point, they will be outnumbered and out-armed, regardless of their rank," she said. Galemir deflated a bit.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he said. "But truly it will accomplish nothing to let them work but give them no means of advancement, nothing for which to hope. They will be in the same position they were in before the Captain came to lead them."

"They should work and be grateful for it," one of the other Councilors said. "We could just as easily give them to the Elves – more easily, in fact."

The others were nodding in agreement. Galemir gulped. The Elves. They were the sword blade at his neck, the ocean beneath the gangplank on which he now balanced. In his worst nightmares he had never envisioned anything like the Elvenking's march through the city. Before Dragaer had captured the Elf Prince he had thought that they were a myth. But it turned out that they were horribly, terrifyingly real.

One of their commanders, a dark-haired Elf, had come to Galemir and told him to give him the names of the Men who had overcome the Elven captive that night in Dragaer's cabin. They would be brought to justice, he said. And if Galemir did not give him the names then they would consider every Corsair equally guilty for the attack on their Prince and they would respond accordingly.

Galemir had given him the names. What else could he do? Privately he had been appalled by the brutal assault on an unarmed captive. The Captain had his reasons, he was sure, but just as surely Dragaer had gained pleasure from it too. And the boasting of Amdir and the others afterward had frankly sickened him.

But the execution had frightened him. Hanging he would have understood. Beheading or even torture he might have expected. But the Elves had rounded up their prisoners with swift efficiency and then the Elvenking – _one Elf _– had fought and killed them _all_. Nine against one, all of them armed, and the odds had been against the Corsairs.

What could any Man do against that? It was incomprehensible, inhuman. Whatever else might come of them Galemir was resolved that the Corsairs' fate must not fall into the hands of the Elves.

"If you truly wish for reconciliation between our peoples then we must be given the means to advance," he said. "A man with no prospects has no reason for loyalty. With no future he is bound to rebel."

"Then he will be captured and punished," Garwick began, but Queen Undómiel raised her hand to stop him.

"The Corsairs will be permitted to rise as far as their abilities will take them," she said. "But they will be eligible for advancement only after three years of faithful service to Gondor. This will be the decree for all those men who fought in Dragaer's army. Their descendants will be subject to no such restrictions." She paused and looked at Galemir. "Will that satisfy your men?"

Galemir bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good." the Queen nodded to the head of the Council. "Continue."

Lord Gryer had been scribbling frantically over his parchments. Now he cleared his throat. "Item six. No Corsair shall captain or otherwise command any ship or vessel."

"Until he has served Gondor for a period of not less than twelve years," Queen Undómiel inserted. "Again a restriction upon this generation only." She glanced at Galemir, who nodded.

Lord Gryer made a note of this. "Item seven . . ."

*~*~*

It was late afternoon when Arwen finally dismissed the court. She felt tired but invigorated, pleased with the day's progress. Leading the negotiations between Gondor's court and the Corsairs had turned out to be far easier than she had anticipated. It was child's play in comparison to the debates in the Hall of Fire back home – in fact she was reminded of the word games that she had played with Elladan and Elrohir as she had neared her majority: challenging enough to test her skill but making her victory all the sweeter for that.

She smiled to herself as she left the throne room. Had she known it would be this enjoyable she would have insisted that Aragorn include her in the Council's deliberations from the first day after their coronation. She had a good mind to lead a diplomatic envoy to Harad once she had finished with the Corsairs.

Behind her the Council members were trailing slowly out. The older men were leaning heavily on their sticks, their feet stumbling in their weariness. Even the younger men looked drained, for the Queen had a habit of turning suddenly to them for confirmation of the details of Gondor's history with Umbar, thus forcing them to remain constantly alert. Old Garwick was almost carried out, propped up by two man-servants. Only his pride kept him on his feet.

Galemir remained alone in the empty throne room, half-lying in the chair that they had brought for him near the end of the proceedings. His guards stood around him, ready to escort him back to his cell, but he was too shattered to move.

After a time he rolled his head along the chair's back to look up at one of the guards. He licked cracked lips and spoke. The guard had to lean down to catch his words. "Did you hear what that last point was?"

The guard straightened up. He was a grizzled veteran of the Steward's corps, with a slight paunch to his belly and white stubble on his cheeks, and he surveyed his prisoner with an air of amusement.

"Aye," he said. "Item twenty-six: the Corsairs will make reparations to Umbar and Minas Tirith for damages and loss of life. I believe that Her Majesty was going to impose a tax."

"Did I agree to that?"

"Aye, that you did, lad."

Galemir groaned. "Did they say what we would be discussing tomorrow?"

"The settlement of the Corsairs in Umbar and Dol Amroth, I think. That is the ones who'll swear fealty to Gondor, of course."

"Oh gods!" Galemir closed his eyes, rolling his head back to the center of the chair. "Please may I just surrender now? Tell them that we will live wherever they like and we will not trouble anyone. I promise."

The guards laughed. The veteran was about to speak when he stopped and turned his head, listening. Outside the hall the great bells of Minas Tirith were ringing. Distantly there came the excited sound of people's voices and the running of feet.

The guard smiled. "Ah," he said with satisfaction. "The King's come back."

*~*~*

Arwen hurried down the cobbled road to the stable yard. The crowd parted before her, encouraged in this courtesy by the escort of men-at-arms ahead and behind her. The yard was filled with a milling confusion of men and horses freshly returned from Dol Amroth. Aragorn was in the center of it all, his back to her as he stroked the nose of a large brown stallion.

"We rode at an easy pace, but even without a burden he was blowing hard," he was saying to the stable master as she approached. "Rub him down well and give him a good feed tonight, but no oats until the morrow. Someone will have to check that his joints do not swell, and exercise him during the night –"

"I'll do it, King Elessar," volunteered a nearby hand. He was a young man of middle height, round-shouldered and with a softness of belly and limb quite different from the battle-hardened soldiers around them. The stable master smiled.

"You can trust him with Cebril, Your Majesty. He's maybe a bit slow in his head, but he makes it up with his heart. He's grand with horses. He'll look after him all right."

"As you trained him, I am sure he will," Aragorn replied. "But even so I would appreciate your personal attention in this case. Hasufel has suffered already, and he means a great deal to me."

"Of course, Your Majesty," the man bowed. A touch belatedly the boy beside him did the same. Looking at his round face and his quiet, incurious eyes, Arwen thought that he did indeed look a bit slow. But he took Hasufel's bridle with calm assurance and his voice as he spoke to the horse was kind.

Aragorn stood looking after them for a few moments as they led the horse away. When he turned his face was weary. But on catching sight of Arwen his eyes lit and he came swiftly forward to take her hands. "_Tinúviel_," he murmured. "How I have missed you."

"I missed you too." Arwen reached up to kiss him. He returned the embrace fervently, catching her about the waist and pulling her tight with an ardor that left her breathless. Then suddenly he drew back, his brow furrowed with concern. "I forgot," he said. "The baby – I did not hurt you?"

"No," Arwen laughed. "No, my love, of course not. He is fine. He is happy to be with his father again, as I am."

She looked out over the crowded yard. In a far corner Faramir had his arms wrapped around Éowyn's waist, looking over her shoulder at the infant daughter she carried. Éomer stood a little apart from them, his helm tucked under his arm. He looked tired.

"Where is Lothíriel?" Arwen asked.

"She remained in Dol Amroth," Aragorn said. "The people need her now, and she also wished to abide for a time at home. Imrahil's sons have been in the Eastern marches this past year. It will be weeks yet before our messengers find them, and Lothíriel wished to be there to meet them when they return."

They were moving away from the stable yard, Aragorn's arm loosely around her waist as they walked. The soldiers lining the road on either side stood to rigid attention as they passed.

"I've some news for you as well," Arwen said. "I have made progress with the Corsairs."

Aragorn looked at her. "Have you? I shall look forward to hearing about that. I pity the poor Corsair who had to go up against you."

Arwen smiled back at him. "Now really, my lord. I took care for his pride, as you requested."

"Did you?"

"Yes," Arwen said with dignity. "I listened courteously to his arguments before I made my decisions."

"And he influenced your decisions, did he?"

"I allowed him to believe that he did."

Aragorn laughed and hugged her close to his side as they passed beneath the archway into the great courtyard. They had walked some twenty yards in silence and were nearing the White Tree when Arwen mustered her courage and finally broached the topic that was foremost on her mind.

"Legolas did not enter the city with you."

Aragorn sighed. "No. He turned aside when we passed through the Elvenking's camp. Gimli went with him."

Arwen released a slow breath, though whether from relief or some other emotion she did not know. "Then the sea-longing did not claim him at Dol Amroth."

"No," Aragorn said. "It did not. But I think sometimes it would have been better if it had."

Arwen looked at him in surprise but his face was dark, forbidding any further questions. She cast about for some other topic to engage him.

"You brought Hasufel back. You had left him with the scout in Dol Amroth, had you not?"

Aragorn's expression softened. "Yes," he said. "And I promised land and a title to the man who cared for him. I had thought him dead – no other horse save one of the Mearas could have made that run and survived. But he is alive, though his wind will probably not recover. I will have him put to pasture and let him sire many foals, and I will count myself well pleased if they possess even a fraction of his spirit."

They were passing the White Tree. Arwen paused, drawing Aragorn to a halt beside her. He cast her a surprised look and then followed her gaze to the Tree. The sapling had shed most of its blossoms now: they were piled in white drifts about its base and were scattered thickly across the surface of the reflecting pool. New leaves of pale green and silver rustled gently in the breeze. They caught the fading light so well that they seemed almost to glow with their own radiance, casting shifting patterns like dappled moonlight on the ground.

Aragorn frowned as he studied it. "The sentries ought to clear away those flowers," he said. "Otherwise they will rot and cloud the pool."

Arwen ignored this. "Look how strong it has grown," she said. She reached down to take Aragorn's hand. His calloused palm was warm against hers, his rough fingers gentle in her grasp. "It came close to failing this winter, but survived and grew greater than before. Now even in darkness it gives light – and it will endure whatever challenges are to come."

"Nevertheless they should tend it," Aragorn said.

*~*~*

Faramir watched as the King and Queen passed under the archway and out of view of the stable yard. They walked with their arms around each other and they seemed easier together, he thought, than they had been in over a year. He was glad of that, for Gondor's sake as much as for theirs. For the good of the country each of them had to make peace with all that had happened and move forward. Slowly it was happening, slowly they were coming together to mend the wounds that Dragaer had inflicted.

There were some yet that were too large to mend. Legolas was one. The Elf's injuries went deep, in mind and in spirit, and in talking with him, in watching him during the long journey home from Dol Amroth, Faramir could not conceive how he was ever to be healed. It seemed to him that it was a matter for the Eldar, beyond the ken of any Man, though Aragorn appeared determined to try.

And there was one other matter of which no one had yet spoken, but in the days following Imrahil's funeral it had preyed more and more upon Faramir's mind. At first it had seemed that there was no solution, but now as he watched the King and Queen together he began to see the glimmerings of a plan.

"What is it?" Éowyn was studying him, frowning a little. "You looked so intent just then."

"Just an idea," Faramir said. She was another one, he thought, who would be a long time healing. She had not forgotten what Elessar had done, or had threatened to do, when he arrested Faramir. And she did not easily forgive.

A small part of him was glad of that. He had known when he married her what Aragorn had meant to her, and he had known that as much as she might love him he would always be her second choice. He had accepted that as the price he paid for joining with this exciting, unpredictable, passionate woman, and he had counted himself well blessed despite it. But he also did not mind it if his wife now loved the King a little less.

"There is something that has been bothering me," he said to her. "A piece of a puzzle that I was trying to solve. But I think that I have found the solution now."

"What are you talking about?" she said. Her tone was sharp – she never liked it when he spoke in riddles.

Faramir smiled and slipped his arm around her shoulders to guide her back to the citadel. "I will tell you as we walk," he said. "I am anxious for your opinion."

_And I think you will approve,_ he thought. _Though I can only pray that the King will agree._

*~*~*

Éowyn did approve of Faramir's proposal, once she had thought it through and questioned him intently about it. In discussing it with her he clarified some points in his own mind until by the time he was ready to present it to the King it was no longer clear to him how much was his own idea and how much was Éowyn's.

It was mid-morning of the day after their return from Dol Amroth that he requested an audience with the King. Aragorn was at his desk reviewing a thick stack of parchments when Faramir entered. He rose to his feet to greet the Steward.

"My lord, welcome. Will you have some wine?" He motioned Faramir to a chair.

"No, thank you, Your Majesty." Faramir moved toward the chair but did not sit. There was a fluttering sensation in his stomach and his heart was pounding. He told himself that it was absurd to be nervous but he could not help it. It was the first time that he and Aragorn had been alone in a room together since the Tower.

It appeared that the King also was ill at ease. He poured himself a glass from the decanter on a side table and then left it behind as he paced the study. "I was just looking over the Queen's agreement with the Corsairs," he said, indicating the parchments on his desk. "She's laid it all out, even to the locations of the settlement camps along the coast. Reading it I almost believe that the plan for our peoples' re-integration might actually work."

"It was your plan to begin with, Your Majesty," Faramir pointed out.

"Yes," Aragorn said. "So I am all the more amazed that it is going so well."

That surprised a laugh from Faramir. Aragorn smiled and sat down, nodding for Faramir to do the same. "How is the Lady Éowyn? And your daughter?"

"Very well, thank you, my lord," Faramir said. He took a breath. "There is another matter about which I would speak with you."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows expectantly. "And that is?"

Faramir told him.

When he had finished Aragorn remained silent for several moments, frowning as he stared unseeingly at the carpet.

"The thought had occurred to me," he said at last. "But the risk . . ."

He rose to his feet and began to pace. Faramir made to rise but Aragorn motioned for him to remain seated. He crossed the room several times before halting at a window, his back to Faramir as he stared out over the courtyard.

"Have you spoken to the others of this?"

"No, Your Majesty. That is, I discussed it with the Lady Éowyn. No one else."

"I see." There was a long silence. Then Aragorn turned. "So we will tell them."

*~*~*

Faramir had anticipated Aragorn's reluctance. He had even anticipated Éomer's hesitation. What he did not anticipate, what he had no possible way of anticipating, was the Elvenking's reaction.

They were gathered together in the King's study: Faramir, Aragorn, Arwen, Éowyn, Éomer, Legolas, Gimli and Thranduil. It was the morning after his talk with Aragorn and the first time that Faramir had seen Legolas and Gimli set foot inside Minas Tirith. Upon entering the room Legolas bowed to the assembled lords and, on straightening, crossed directly to the large window behind the King's desk and opened it. He sat in the sill with one knee drawn up to his chest and the other leg dangling outside. It was a three-storey drop to the ground but he looked fully ready to exit that way if necessary. Gimli, following him, bowed to Arwen and Éowyn, nodded to Faramir and Éomer, ignored Aragorn completely and settled himself in a large armchair next to Legolas.

Thranduil was the last to arrive. He gave a courtly bow to them all and then stood silent, waiting to see what would happen next. Aragorn looked at Faramir. Following his gaze, the others did so as well. Éowyn nudged him forward.

Faramir took a deep breath. "Tomorrow the armies of Rohan and of Eryn Lasgalen will depart, and with our gratitude. Before that time, however, there is one matter yet which we must resolve. That is the palantír."

Arwen drew a sharp breath and looked at Aragorn. Éomer frowned. Thranduil looked from Faramir to Aragorn and back again, his brows drawn in concentration.

"There are three now in our possession," Faramir said. "The palantír of Orthanc, which Éomer King brought with him back from Harad and which is now locked in the citadel treasury. The palantír of Minas Tirith, which my father possessed and which rests on his tomb. And the palantír used by Captain Dragaer, which the Corsairs surrendered to us. What are we to do with them, my lords?"

"Destroy them," Gimli said before anyone else could answer. "Smash them all before anybody else gets hold of one."

"I am not certain we _could _destroy them even if we tried," Arwen said. "They were forged by Celebrimbor's followers, the same Noldor who made the Rings of Power. They were wrought with enchantments to make them impervious to any outside force. Even if we dropped them into Mount Doom it would be no guarantee of their destruction."

"Leave it to the Noldor to craft a weapon that no one can get rid of," Thranduil muttered.

Faramir shot him an amused look. "Even if we could destroy them it would not solve the problem," he said. "There were seven seeing stones brought from Númenor to Middle-earth. Assuming that the Dark Lord's was lost in the collapse of Barad-dûr, that still leaves three stones unaccounted for."

"But they're gone," Éomer interjected. "The stones of Arnor were lost when the line of Gondor's Kings was broken."

"We _believe _them to be lost," Faramir said. "But Sauron recovered one of them, at least, and gave it to Dragaer. Who is to say what happened to the others?" He paused. "Destroying the ones we have will not prevent an enemy acquiring another palantír, and if we lose ours then we will have no way to know if another is used against us."

Éomer shuddered. "You mean that someone could be watching us at any time."

"As I did," Aragorn said quietly. There was a silence.

Faramir cleared his throat. "I have a suggestion," he said. "There are three of them, and three great allies have come together to defeat the enemy which threatened Gondor. I propose that the palantíri be divided among us: one for Gondor, one for Rohan, and one for Eryn Lasgalen."

There was a briefer silence this time. "What is to prevent one of us from using it as Aragorn did?" Éomer said. "It took hold of him – it drove him mad."

"The madness was due to Dragaer's influence," Faramir said.

But Aragorn shook his head. "The Corsair used it to his advantage," he said. "But there is some . . . attraction . . . in the palantír for its own sake. The power it offers is seductive and should not be underestimated. I would not have anyone wield it alone."

"Then what do you suggest?" Arwen asked.

Aragorn looked at her. "That I not be alone," he said. "That if ever the palantír must be accessed it be done by the King, Queen and Steward together."

Arwen met his gaze, and Faramir saw the moisture in her eyes. She looked down, blinking rapidly. Aragorn took her hand.

"I still do not like it," Éomer said. "What is to prevent anyone else from getting to it – or one of you slipping away to use it alone?"

"I could build a door that'd keep them out," Gimli said. "Three locks, with three separate keys. By Durin, I could make you two doors and _six _different locks if you like – one set for the top of the tower and another for the bottom. That'd slow down anyone trying to get to it illegally."

"Though I dare say _you_ could manage it, Master Dwarf, if you put your mind to it," Aragorn said.

Gimli met his eye and one corner of his mouth quirked before he looked quickly away again. Faramir stared. He would not have thought it possible, but he could have sworn that the Dwarf was blushing.

"In that case very well," Éomer said. "But there are no high towers with multiple locked doors in Edoras – and no one to guard _me _in its use in any case."

"What of Helm's Deep?" Éowyn said. Faramir shot her an approving look. This was a point that she had raised when he first told her of his plan, and she had conceived its solution. "There are towers and locked doors aplenty in the Hornburg, and Lothíriel could possess a second key."

Éomer looked thoughtful. "Perhaps . . ." he said slowly. Then he nodded. "Yes, I think it could work. If Lord Gimli will assist us with the arrangements it could be done."

"Excellent," Faramir said. "Then all that remains is Eryn Lasgalen –"

"No," Thranduil said.

Faramir blinked. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but perhaps you misunderstand me. This is not a gift for which Eryn Lasgalen would be indebted. In your intervention and in the strength of your warriors you are deserving of honors far greater than we can give you. It is my hope that the palantíri might improve the communication and friendship between our peoples."

"I understood you perfectly," the Elvenking replied. "And my answer is no."

There was a pause. Then Aragorn spread his hands. "My lord, may we ask why?"

"The palantíri were gifted by the Noldor to Men," Thranduil said. "I do not cast judgment upon that gift, nor upon the decision of Men to accept it. But that was _your _choice, not mine. No device of the Noldor has ever resided in the Greenwood, and it will not do so now."

"But, Your Majesty," Faramir said. "The palantír is not evil in itself. It can be used to good purpose, to defend your land."

"And how long before we came to depend on that defense?" Thranduil answered. "No. The warriors of Greenwood have guarded us for the past two thousand years without the use of a Ring or stone or any other Noldor craft. They do not need one now."

"My lord," Legolas said.

Everyone turned. Faramir started: he had nearly forgotten that the Prince was there.

"The palantíri serve another purpose," Legolas said. "In the past they increased the contact and understanding between Men."

Thranduil snorted. "I believe that I have had all the contact with Men that I can stand," he said. Éomer blinked, clearly taken aback. Faramir exchanged a look with Aragorn. Arwen stifled a laugh and quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

"Nevertheless," Legolas said. "Adar, you asked me if I regretted the choices that I had made. I tell you now that I do have regrets . . . but if I had it to do again I would choose the same."

It was a long moment before anyone spoke. Aragorn was studying the floor with downcast eyes. Legolas remained exactly as he was, seated in the open window with head held high and eyes fixed upon his father. Gimli looked back and forth between them with narrowed eyes.

Then Thranduil smiled. It was not a friendly look. "Very well," he said. "If you believe that a palantír might increase our understanding then I shall have one. And I shall keep it in Aglarond."

"_What?_" Gimli said.

"With your permission, Lord Gimli, of course," Thranduil said smoothly. "My edict against Noldor devices in Eryn Lasgalen stands. And there is no one in the Greenwood to stand watch over _me_. But I think that you could craft a storeroom deep in your halls with two keys. You and your successors shall have charge of one. I shall keep the other."

He looked at Faramir. "I believe that one of the seeing stones has a . . . defect, so to speak. They say that it shows naught but the image of two burning hands, unless mastered by one of extraordinary will."

"I . . . yes, that is true," Faramir said. Involuntarily his gaze slipped aside to Legolas. The Prince's face was as smooth as a mask, betraying nothing of his inner thoughts. For his part Faramir was wondering just how extensive the Elvenking's spy network was.

"Then I shall take that palantír," Thranduil said. "I shall keep it deep in the hoard of Aglarond and I shall not use it save when in the company of one of Durin's folk, which will surely be only at the greatest need."

There was a long moment while they processed this. Aragorn recovered first. "Does that meet with your approval, Lord Gimli?"

Gimli's mouth was hanging open as he stared at the Elvenking. Now he closed it and straightened in his chair. "I . . . uh . . . yes. Yes. That sounds fine."

"Then that is settled," Thranduil looked pleased. "Now with your permission, my lords, I will take my leave. I have an army to prepare for our departure on the morrow, and now it seems I must make arrangements for the transport of a palantír as well. Fortunately Lord Gimli plans to accompany us, so we can stop by Aglarond on the way."

He bowed and the company hastened to bow to him in return. At the door he paused and looked back. "Prince Legolas, I will expect you in attendance this evening."

_Now why did he say that?_ Faramir wondered as he straightened. _Of course Legolas will return to the Elven camp tonight, so why say it in front of us all?_ And then he thought, _So that Aragorn cannot command Legolas otherwise._

Aragorn was looking at Legolas, a crease drawn between his brows. "They depart tomorrow, and you go with them?"

Legolas avoided his eyes. "Yes, my lord."

"But . . ." Aragorn took a deep breath, as though struggling for control. "I have tried to honor your wishes. I have waited. But, Legolas, there is no time! If you go now –" his voice fractured.

"By your leave, my lord," Legolas said. His hand moved up to grasp the window frame and Faramir saw the edge of bandage peeking beneath the vambrace at his wrist.

"You said that if you had it to do again you would choose the same," Aragorn said. The raw pain in his voice made Faramir look away. He wished fervently that he were elsewhere.

"You must know that you did was not in vain. You made me whole again – let me help you. Please – Legolas wait! Wait! This is your _life_ at stake!"

But Legolas had dropped through the open window and was gone, and only the empty draperies were left drifting slowly closed behind him.

For a long moment they all stared in silence. Then Gimli spoke.

"Mahal's Hammer," he said. "I wish he would stop _doing _that!"


	52. Cruel to be Kind

"I do repent; but heaven hath pleas'd it so  
To punish me with this, and this with me,  
That I must be their scourge and minister.  
. . . I must be cruel only to be kind."

– William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

Chapter 51: Cruel to be Kind

Legolas had gone, and Gimli was worried. After his abrupt departure from Aragorn's study the Elf had simply disappeared. Gimli had searched for him in all the usual places: the stables, the gardens, the high courtyard of Minas Tirith, and he was nowhere to be found. Gimli was forced to conclude that even after all his years of experience he could not track Legolas when he did not wish to be tracked.

Finally he retired, weary and with chest aching from exertion, to the tent that the Mirkwood Elves had provided him. Too keyed up to rest, he paced his small quarters and fretted. What had happened to Legolas? More importantly, what was _going _to happen to him?

The Elf had shown flashes of his old strength now and then – he had seemed almost himself for awhile there in Dol Amroth, if rather tired and withdrawn – and Gimli had counted the bruising of Aragorn's cheek and eye as positive signs of his friend's recovery. But the flashes were short-lived, and then the leaden weariness and pain would settle again like a dark curtain behind Legolas' eyes.

The sea had lost its hold over him, and where once Gimli would have rejoiced to see Legolas turn his back to it as casually as he would a field or city of Men, now it struck him as an ominous sign. It was not that the Elf did not care about the sea. It was that he did not seem to care about _anything_ any longer.

Even the arrival of a delegation from his colony in Ithilien had failed to rouse Legolas' interest. The new Elves had been waiting for them when they returned from Dol Amroth. They had received Faramir's message and journeyed swiftly to Minas Tirith, full of concern for their Prince. Legolas had tried to receive them as he always did, to show them that he was well, but even to Gimli's ears his assurances rang false.

He had watched Legolas in the court of Ithilien before. He had been more than an attentive Prince then – he had been completely engaged with his people and his forest day and night. He was constantly moving from one place to another, directing everything from the colony's defense against the intermittent attacks of Orcs escaped from Mordor to the rotation of the Elves' crops. Gimli had never seen him sit at a conference table for discussion – he was not sure that Legolas' forest colony of flets and cottages _had _a conference chamber. Rather Legolas would simply go to where he was needed and deal with the matter at hand. Thus a lieutenant leading a border patrol home through the rain-swept trees under the cover of a midnight storm might come suddenly upon his Prince in the branches and find himself required to give a report of his patrol's actions then and there.

Despite the pull of the sea-longing, Legolas had cared for his people. He had _listened _to them. When they needed him he gave them his full concentration with an intensity that even the other Elves seemed to find unnerving at times. It was as if, Gimli thought, he were fighting the sea-longing by pouring his energy into the people and the land that anchored him in Middle-earth. He gave them everything he had, everything he was, as he had done for the Fellowship, for Aragorn, for Arwen and, Gimli admitted, for Gimli himself. And his people loved him for it.

Remembering that, it had been all the more difficult to watch Legolas with them the day before. He had tried, that was clear. He had greeted the party warmly and encouraged them to tell him of events at the colony in his absence. He had smiled at the description of a stream restored to health in northern forest and expressed concern about three separate bands of Orcs that had attacked one village at the far eastern border. He had sketched a plan to build a wall at the village's eastern flank and had re-directed a patrol from the south of the forest north to scout the foothills of the Ephel Duath to discover the Orcs' hiding places.

But he had not really cared. The intensity, the passion with which he had built the Elves' colony and restored the forest of Ithilien was gone. He had a distracted air, as though he were listening to them while also attending to some other sound that they could not hear. His gaze was distant as they spoke and he did not meet their eyes. At the end of the meeting he had promised to return to Ithilien after his visit to Eryn Lasgalen, but even as he heard the words from Legolas' lips Gimli knew them to be a lie. The colony Elves seemed to know it too. They bid their Prince a sorrowful farewell, bowing low with hands over their hearts before they departed. To Gimli it looked as if they did not expect to see him alive again.

When they had gone Legolas slumped in his chair and covered his eyes with his hand. He remained motionless for several minutes. Even his breathing seemed to cease. Gimli counted a full minute during which the Elf did not inhale at all. He was just starting from his chair with the intention of shaking Legolas by the shoulder when the Elf raised his head.

"They did not believe me, did they?"

"You mean about returning to Ithilien?" Gimli said. "I doubt it. They know that you need to recover before you can return to your duties there. You're not quite yourself just now, you know."

"I know." Legolas sighed. "And yet I remain. And so I must go on."

What he had meant by that remark Gimli did not know, but it seemed clear that despite his occasional displays of spirit Legolas was far from well. It was as if, he thought, Legolas could lift the lead curtain from his eyes and look out now and then, but each time he did so it sapped more of his strength, and each time when he was forced to let it fall again it crashed down heavier and darker than before.

One day that curtain would be too heavy for even Legolas to lift. Gimli did not want to think about what would happen to his friend then. But he did. It was just one of the lessons of the Dwarven exile: however unpleasant the truth might be, hiding from it would not make it go away. So as the afternoon lengthened into evening and the light faded from his small tent, Gimli paced and thought.

He thought of Legolas, and of Faramir, and of Arwen. He thought of the palantír and of the images that he had seen and felt in Legolas' mind. But most of all he thought of Aragorn. He had stopped himself, Legolas had said. Aragorn had beaten the sea-captain – and so Dragaer had been forced to finish the rape himself. Gimli thought about what that meant. He thought about the days of waiting – when Aragorn had obviously wanted to go to Legolas and had held himself back in respect of the Elf's wishes. He thought about the naked desperation in the Man's face at their last meeting. _You made me whole again_, Aragorn had said. _If you go now _. . . There was no need for him to finish that sentence.

Gimli stopped pacing and sighed. "So that's the way of it," he said aloud. "And I suppose it's got to be him . . . _damn him._"

*~*~*

True to his father's command Legolas re-appeared in the Elven camp for supper that night. He said nothing of where he had been during the day and Gimli did not press him about it. He was simply glad to see his friend back again. But Legolas sat pale and silent at the Elvenking's table, and though under Thranduil's eye he did convey some food to his mouth and chew, Gimli was certain that he tasted none of it.

When the Elvenking finally signaled the end of the meal Legolas was the first to leave, vanishing through the dining tent's entrance as silently as he had arrived. Gimli scrambled to his feet and went after him, pausing only briefly to collect his stick.

He caught up to Legolas in the Prince's tent. Legolas was standing next to the armory chest at the far side of the room. When Gimli entered he turned, and Gimli saw the long white knife in his hand. He paused.

Legolas acknowledged him with a nod. Then he returned his attention to the knife, turning it this way and that, seeming to study the way the lamplight ran along the design etched into its blade.

Gimli cleared his throat. "We need to talk."

Legolas did not look up. "Not now, Gimli."

"Then when?" Gimli walked forward so that he stood directly in front of Legolas, all but forcing the Elf to look at him. "After we leave Minas Tirith? After it's too late?"

Legolas sighed. "Too late for what?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Gimli challenged. "I may not be an expert on Elves, but any fool can see that you're sick. It's been weeks now and you've barely eaten. You haven't slept at all. The whole Elven camp is acting like you're at Death's door – they've practically carved the epitaph for your tombstone. So you tell me: after we leave, what happens? A week from now, a month from now, what will you be? Alive? Or dead?"

"My tree," Legolas said.

Gimli stared at him. "What?"

"The Silvan Elves do not use tombstones," Legolas said. "They would be choosing my burial tree, not –" he shook his head. "It does not matter. I promised Elessar that I would endure in Middle-earth for as long as he lived. I will make you the same promise, if you like."

"You'll _endure _in Middle-earth?" Gimli said. "What kind of fool promise is that? And anyway, how can you be sure? Are you getting better? Because if you are then I don't see it."

Legolas picked up his quiver and slid the long knife into its holder. Without looking at Gimli he said, "What would you have me do?"

"Whatever you have to do," Gimli said. "Whatever it takes. You can't go on this way, dying by inches. I don't care what you promised, Legolas, you can't live a year like this, much less the rest of Aragorn's life. No one could."

"Perhaps I am stronger than you know," Legolas said.

Gimli looked at him, standing tall and slender as a willow reed in the lamplight, his jaw set in a familiar line. He felt a sudden rush of affection for this stubborn, proud, recklessly brave Elf who had suffered so much, and come back to suffer more, for his friends. _Elvellon_, Legolas had named him, and at that moment Gimli wished that there were a similar title that he could bestow in return for Legolas, Dwarf-friend.

"I do not doubt it," he said gently. "But even if you _could _endure it, Mahal forbid that I should ever wish that for you. I cannot believe that is what Aragorn wanted. There has to be a better way."

Legolas' mouth tightened. "You refer to Elessar's plan."

"Maybe," Gimli said. "He helped all those people after the battle. He healed _me_, as I recall, at _your _request. You trusted him enough for that. If there's any chance that he could –"

"He cannot," Legolas said.

"How do you know?" Gimli demanded. "You haven't even tried! I've never seen him fail to heal anyone once he's put his mind to it. Why would you be the first?"

"Because _Elessar _cannot help _me_," Legolas said.

Gimli fell quiet. Legolas turned away, his arms folded over his chest. There was a long silence.

Finally Legolas spoke. "I thought that you disliked his idea. 'After all that he has done,' you said, you thought him rash to suggest it."

"I said that I could not believe he had the gallto suggest it," Gimli corrected. "But since then I've been thinking. If there's any chance that he could help you, even if it's only enough so that you can sail to Valinor, then isn't that worth the attempt? If the choice is between letting him try and just watching you die, then I know which I choose."

He paused. "I'm not suggesting that you be alone with him. I'd be with you. And you'd have control. You decide what happens, what you need to be healed. You can stop it any time you wish."

Legolas bowed his head and his eyes closed. "But what if I cannot bear it?" he whispered.

Gimli frowned. "What –" he began, but before he could finish Legolas straightened. He looked at Gimli and his shoulders squared.

"Very well," he said. "Since you wish it . . . we can try."

*~*~*

Arwen had long since gone to bed. Aragorn was sitting up in his study, staring into the glowing coals of the fire, when there was a knock at the door. He turned his head, blinking the red afterimages from his eyes.

"Come in."

A maidservant was framed in the spill of light from the doorway. "Your Majesty," she curtsied. If she thought it odd to find the King sitting alone in the dark she gave no sign. "Lords Legolas and Gimli are here to see you."

Aragorn's heart seemed to miss a beat. He got to his feet, holding onto the back of the chair for support. "Show them in."

The maid curtsied again and vanished. Aragorn heard voices in the hall, and then footsteps returning. His stomach had knotted up somewhere in his chest.

The maidservant entered first and went quickly around the room kindling the lamps. The warm lamplight filled the study, bringing out the rich colours of the wall hangings and making the brass fittings of the fireplace shine like gold. She stooped to stir life back into the fire and finally ended back at the study doorway. "Shall I bring refreshments, my lord?"

Aragorn had not taken his eyes from the two figures by the door. Legolas had moved the bare minimum distance required into the room. With each lamp the maid lit the white planes of his face were thrown into sharper relief. He looked ready to bolt at any moment. At his side Gimli was standing with legs braced apart, his hands folded on top of his stick and his eyes very dark.

"Your Majesty?"

"No," Aragorn answered the maid. "No, thank you, this is fine. You may go."

The door closed behind her, leaving them alone.

Gimli was the first to break the silence. "We've been considering," he said. "And we've decided to let you try."

"Let me try?"

"To heal him," Gimli said. "You've got the hands of the King, right? And the athelas." He gave Aragorn a sharp look. "You _do _have athelas, don't you?"

"I . . . yes," Aragorn said. "I have it in my pack."

"Right then," Gimli said. "So you can give it a try on one condition."

Aragorn tore his eyes from Legolas to look at him. "What condition?"

"I stay with him," Gimli said. "I stay right here the whole time. You try anything along the lines of what that Corsair put in your head, I see one thing I don't like, and I'll bash your skull in with my stick. Fair enough?"

Aragorn swallowed. He looked at Legolas. "Do you consent?"

"To Gimli bashing in your skull with his stick?" Legolas did not smile.

"To all of it," Aragorn said.

Legolas did not answer for a long moment. When he finally spoke it was in a whisper so soft that Aragorn barely heard it. "Yes."

*~*~*

They began with the athelas. Aragorn fetched his pack from the bedroom, padding on ranger-silent feet so as not to disturb Arwen. He had almost reached the door when he paused and went back to take the large washbowl from its stand next to the wardrobe. He had to use both hands to lift it, slinging his pack over his shoulder and cradling it awkwardly against his chest.

He moved as quickly as he could, fearing that by the time he returned to the study Legolas would be gone. But when he entered the room he found the Elf and Dwarf there waiting for him. Legolas had edged a little further into the room, but he stood with his back to the wall, poised on the balls of his feet. Gimli, Aragorn noticed, had positioned himself between Legolas and the door. He did not quite block Legolas' exit, but he seemed to be trying in a small way to encourage the Elf to stay.

Aragorn sighed. He could not possibly proceed with Legolas in this state. The Elf had given his consent, but it was obvious that he was battling within himself just to remain in the room. He was nowhere near to allowing Aragorn to touch him, much less to lowering his defenses for the kind of mental and physical contact that real healing would require.

Aragorn left Legolas and Gimli where they were and crossed to the fire at the opposite side of the room. He eased the washing bowl down onto a low table that stood before the hearth. "I am going to heat water for the athelas," he said. "Please make yourselves comfortable. This will take some time."

The heavy iron kettle was a quarter filled with water already, heated in readiness for the King's tea. Aragorn ladled more from the bucket until it was filled almost to the brim with cold spring water. Then he knelt to add more wood to the fire. He busied himself with this for awhile, keeping his back to the room. Finally he heard Gimli approach.

"It isn't working," the Dwarf muttered. "He won't move. Maybe it was the wrong thing, coming here."

Aragorn turned. Legolas remained at the far end of the room, rigid with tension. His eyes were wide and staring as a deer that has heard the snap of a branch beneath the hunter's boot.

"It's all right," Aragorn said, though his heart sank within him. "There is no hurry. We have plenty of time." But even as he spoke he felt the pressure building, opportunity slipping between his fingers like the sands of an hourglass running out. He was acutely aware that this was his last chance. If he failed now Legolas would leave, and he would not see him again.

Aragorn walked to the window that framed his desk. He lifted the latch and pushed the glass open. The night breeze swept into the room, carrying with it the faint scent of new grass. He left the window ajar and crossed to the door, feeling the Elf's gaze upon him as he did so. He pulled open the door and then closed it again, leaving the handle turned so that it could open at a touch. Finally he went to Legolas.

"The door is unlocked," he said. "The window is open. You can leave any time you wish, in any manner that you wish. Nothing here can happen without your will."

Legolas nodded. He was breathing in swift, shallow breaths.

Aragorn returned to the hearth. There were three armchairs arranged as one half of a semi-circle before the fire and a long leather sofa set opposite them as the other half. Aragorn settled himself in the chair closest to the fire and drew the pouch of herbs from his pack.

"Athelas can help to calm and to settle the spirit," he said to Gimli. "It can help to anchor the healer and to guide a patient who is lost to come home – as Lord Elrond used it to guide Frodo after the Witchking stabbed him on Weathertop. It can also aid in giving some strength of healing to the patient."

"You mean in transferring strength from the healer to the patient," Gimli said. "As you did for me."

Aragorn shot him a quick look. He had not thought that Gimli had been aware of that at the time. Either Legolas had told him something of what had happened after Dragaer had attacked him, or else the Dwarf was more perceptive than Aragorn had realized.

"Yes," he said. "But any real strength of healing must come from within the patient. The healer can only be an aide." He said this, but in his heart he was determined to do more than that. If Legolas allowed him, he would make the Elf well again. Whatever it took, he would do it if it killed him.

"Aye, well," Gimli said. "I don't know if I ever said it, what with one thing and another, but . . . thank you. And thank you," he added, turning to Legolas. "For saving my life. I am grateful."

"I did nothing," Legolas said.

An image flashed through Aragorn's mind, of Legolas opening his shirt, of Legolas kneeling. _Whatever you ask of me I will do_. He repressed a shudder.

"You did a lot, lad, and don't pretend otherwise," Gimli said. "So accept my thanks with the good manners that your mother taught you and be done with it, you daft fool Elf."

Legolas inclined his head briefly. He said nothing, but the hint of a smile tugged fleetingly at his lips. Some of the tension had eased from his posture.

Steam was beginning to curl from the kettle's spout. Aragorn wrapped a rag about the handle and lifted it down. He poured the hot water into the washing bowl. Then he returned the kettle to the fire and picked up his drawstring pouch.

Gimli had settled himself in the chair next to Aragorn's. He leaned his stick against the arm of the chair and pulled his pipe from a pocket in his tunic. He did not light it, but tapped the stem against his mouth while he followed Aragorn's movements with an intent gaze.

The pouch string had knotted tightly shut. Aragorn picked at it with the tips of his fingers, his closely bitten nails of no help at all. The back of his neck grew hot: he could feel Gimli watching him.

Then with a sudden inspiration he looked up. "Could you help me with this," he said, and tossed the pouch across the room to Legolas.

Obviously startled, Legolas reacted instinctively. He caught the pouch in mid-air and then, once having it, could not easily be rid of it again. With a few deft motions he undid the knot, crossing the room as he did so to drop the pouch on the table before Aragorn.

"Thank you," Aragorn said.

Legolas did not answer, but neither did he retreat again. He sat upon the arm of the sofa opposite, watching as Aragorn shook a few dried athelas leaves into his cupped palm.

"The physical wounds have been cared for," Aragorn said, setting the pouch aside. He tried to speak matter-of-factly, as a healer tending to a patient. But his heart was pounding.

"Now we will address the injuries done to mind and spirit." He crushed the leaves between his hands, raising them to his face to inhale their fragrance. Then he cast them into the bowl. The dried fragments opened and spread wide as they drifted over the hot water, releasing their essence upon the steam that rose gently from the bowl.

"Take slow, deep breaths," Aragorn said softly. "Do not try to think of anything in particular. Let your mind go to where it needs to be. I will find you there."

He concentrated on his own breathing, inhaling through a slow beat of six counts and then exhaling for another six as Elrond had taught him. The athelas was like a dawn rising in his mind, expelling shadows and bringing clarity of thought and purpose. He gathered himself to focus within his own mind first, searching for any residual bond or path he might use to reach Legolas. But there was none.

"For Mahal's sake, lad, breathe!" Gimli said sharply.

Aragorn opened his eyes. Legolas was sitting stiffly on the arm of the sofa, his knees pulled up to his chest and his wide eyes fixed upon the athelas leaves. At Gimli's command he drew a shuddering breath and released it, panting in quick gasps.

"Slowly," Aragorn said. "Slowly. As though you were targeting your bow."

As he said the words a memory came to him with startling clarity: the pull of the bow's tension in his arms, the string cutting into the pads of his fingers, the sun warm on the back of his neck as he held the draw. Legolas was studying him, making minute adjustments to his stance, to the angle of his arm, to the line of his hips and feet. He could smell the fresh scent of the grass in the target meadow; he could hear the birds' twitter in the trees and Legolas saying, "Now relax. Breathe in. Lift, breathe out slowly as you draw, slowly, that's it, and release."

He heard the Elf's voice so clearly in that moment that he turned his head to see if Legolas had spoken. Legolas met his eyes briefly and then looked away.

They began again, and this time Aragorn listened to hear Legolas' breathing deepen and steady before focusing on his own.

There was no bond left by which he might reach Legolas. So he would have to find another way.

He visualized the core of energy at his center, feeling the warmth radiating through his body: the power of his heart's beat, the cool rush of air into his lungs fueling the burning light within. He had spent weeks preparing for this moment, in the hope that Legolas would allow the healing touch, and now he concentrated the full force of his will into strengthening that light. He saw in his mind's eye as it grew brighter and stronger, blue-white light filling him like a cup trembling to overflow, rushing down his veins and nerves to spill from the very tips of his fingers.

He opened his eyes. As always when in the healing trance his senses were altered, perceptions filtered through the lens of life and death. This time the desperation to succeed and the terror of what would happen if he failed had driven him further than he had ever gone before.

The room was skewed: colors leached from the tapestries and furniture so that they appeared like faded watercolours to his eyes. The lamps had dimmed, their fires muted to pale flickers as though viewed through a fog. But a spider building a web in the far corner stood out so sharp and beautiful, every hair upon its legs and body distinct and its life force like a bright spark within, that on catching a glimpse of it Aragorn was momentarily transfixed and had to drag his eyes away.

At his side Gimli was burning with a deep, steady glow like that of a banked hearth. Warmth and strength filled him as red-gold light that waxed with each sure beat of his heart. The wound in his chest was barely visible as a slight dimming of his vitality, like a single wet coal among the heaped embers of a furnace.

Aragorn felt an urge to touch it, to channel his own light to fill the empty place within Gimli's. He actually started to reach toward the Dwarf before he stopped himself. His senses were hyper-aware, his healing instincts pulling more powerfully upon him than they had ever done before. But even sunk this far into the trance he retained control of his mind and actions. And though he felt Gimli's injury like an ache deep within his own breast, he knew that there was a greater need to which he must attend.

So taking a deep breath he turned to Legolas, and gasped. He had known what to expect and had prepared himself, but even so the sight of his friend struck him like a blow, knocking the wind from him.

In the first instant he could not see Legolas at all. The darkness upon him was so strong that it blotted out the Elf's form entirely, so that to his heightened senses there was only the image of pain made visible, fear and despair like a black cloak shrouding him from view.

"Dear Eru," Aragorn breathed. In his shock his control slipped and the trance weakened. The room grew more solid and the darkness faded. Legolas was there, curled almost into a ball upon the sofa arm, his head bowed to his knees.

Aragorn pulled himself back to focus. He had not come this far to quit the battle now. He breathed quietly for a time, re-centering himself before trying again. He did not sink so deeply into the trance this time but retained some awareness of the outside world, so that his perceptions slid between the two realities, the faded images of his friends and the room as an outsider would see them superimposed like ghosts over the deeper truth visible to his mind's eye.

He looked at Legolas and saw the darkness in form of a great beast curled about him, its claws sunk deep into his body while its bat wings arched around him like the cruel parody of an embrace. And in the pale form of his friend he saw nothing, no spark, no vital light at all.

"Legolas!" In sudden fear Aragorn called his name aloud, and the Elf lifted his head.

And there in his eyes Aragorn saw it: the flame that held back the darkness. Fire burned in Legolas' eyes so small and fierce and bright that even the crushing weight of the shadow could not quench it. It burned with a blue-white flame brighter even than Aragorn's own light, though concentrated a thousand times smaller.

_When all is lost . . . what remains?_

_Me._

"Dear Eru," Aragorn said again. But he could not look away. Legolas still breathed: somewhere within him the life force must remain. But it was so faint and buried so deeply beneath the shadow that Aragorn could not sense it. Legolas was now surviving quite literally by the strength of his will, by his sheer stubborn refusal to surrender.

Aragorn knew something of the techniques by which an Elf's mind could control his spirit and body. He had used them in developing his own skills over the years, and ultimately in bringing himself to this point, the most powerful healing trance he had ever attempted. The strength of concentration it required was exhausting. Even now he could feel himself growing weary, the effort of control draining him. He would not be able to maintain this state much longer.

Legolas had focused his will even more intensely than he – and he had maintained it for how long? Days? _Weeks?_

_You cannot imagine what even a single hour costs me_, Legolas had said, and only now did Aragorn realize how true that was.

Aragorn drew a deep breath. Self-recrimination would have to wait. His guilt would not help Legolas now. However fiercely Legolas fought, he could not win this battle alone. He was losing now: the shadow was crushing him before Aragorn's eyes.

Aragorn was on his feet. He did not remember deciding to stand up, but as he moved forward his knee collided with the low table holding the bowl of athelas. He stumbled and the world cleared a little.

"What are you doing?" Gimli said. Legolas was staring at him wide-eyed.

"I . . . I need to be closer," Aragorn said. Even at this distance Legolas' pain was like a physical weight dragging upon him. It was not only his healing instincts that drove him forward: the warrior within him was desperate to fight. He forced himself to still, to wait, to explain.

"I can see it now," he said. "But to help you I must come closer. I will have to touch you."

Gimli sucked in his breath. Legolas was silent, motionless.

"I will not hurt you," Aragorn said. "I swear to you. Legolas, please! It's killing you!"

Legolas swallowed. "What must I do?"

Aragorn moved around the table to stand before him. "No more than you are already doing," he said. "Just . . . try to relax. Legolas . . ."

He laid one hand gently upon the Elf's shoulder. In that instant the world tipped: his vision changed, the room drained of its colors and the light of his own hands flared blindingly bright. Like a dam bursting the life-strength poured down his arm and into Legolas, and the shadow reared up eagerly to meet it, sucking up the warmth and energy as swiftly as he could give it, scoring icy claws into his flesh.

Legolas stiffened, catching his breath. The next moment he broke free, knocking Aragorn's hand aside, scrambling to his feet and away.

Aragorn staggered. The world lurched and broke apart, fragmented visions of the dual realities whirling around him. He caught the fireplace mantle to steady himself, closing his eyes as the floor tilted beneath his feet. Slowly the dizziness passed. His right hand was freezing cold, his arm numb almost to the elbow.

He opened his eyes. Legolas had backed against the far wall, breathing hard. Gimli was on his feet, staring at them both.

"I think that's enough," he said.

"No!" Aragorn said. "No, wait – I went too fast. I'm sorry. I'll go more slowly. Legolas, please. I will not even initiate the trance until you're ready. Please. Let us try again."

Legolas shook his head. "You will be the death of us, Elessar."

"I know what is at stake," Aragorn said. "And you know it even more than I."

Legolas studied him for a long moment in silence. Then he walked forward until he stood directly before Aragorn. He reached down and took Aragorn's hand in his. Aragorn remained motionless, scarcely daring to breathe.

Legolas turned his hand palm up, tracing the lines with the tip of one finger. "So this is the hand of the King," he murmured. He looked up, and there was an expression almost of pity in his eyes.

"And you would save me." He looked long into Aragorn's eyes. Then he dropped his hand and turned away. "Where?"

Aragorn swallowed. He gestured weakly toward the sofa. "It might help if you could lie down."

Legolas froze.

"You do not have to," Gimli said.

But Legolas shook his head. "No," he said. "I can . . . I will do this."

He walked to the sofa. Aragorn followed, massaging his right hand with the fingers of his left. He could still feel Legolas' touch upon his skin.

Legolas stopped and stood looking down. Aragorn moved around the sofa to face him. "It will be all right," he said. "You still have control, Legolas. I will do nothing without your consent."

Legolas sat down. He breathed deeply for a moment before slowly sliding his legs up and easing his back down onto the cushions. He was trembling.

Aragorn knelt beside him. "It is all right," he whispered. "We are here. You are safe. Breathe. You need do nothing else. Just breathe."

Legolas was watching him. Then he nodded. He turned his eyes to the ceiling, breathing hard.

Aragorn waited. Gradually Legolas' breathing slowed and his hands relaxed their grip upon the sofa's cushions.

When he judged the time was right he leaned forward. "I have to touch you now," he said. "I will place my hand upon your chest – that is all. That is all."

Legolas instantly tensed again, the tendons of his neck standing out beneath his skin. He swallowed hard and then nodded.

Aragorn lifted his hand and held it just above Legolas' chest. The Elf's body heat radiated warmly against his palm. Legolas closed his eyes. He was trembling harder now, the pulse in his neck visibly racing.

"It's all right," Aragorn whispered. His own hands were shaking. "You are safe, you are in control. It's all right."

He laid his hand on Legolas' chest.

The impact of the shadow was far weaker this time. Aragorn felt it dimly, the pain and need dragging at him, but without the healing trance it was only a distant ache, scarcely noticeable.

He breathed in slowly, beginning the process of centering himself, of opening himself to what he must do.

Legolas was rigid and shaking, his heart hammering beneath Aragorn's hand. His breath came faster and faster until he was panting, his chest heaving and his hands clenched white-knuckled on the cushions.

"Easy lad," Gimli said. "Easy, it's all right."

Aragorn, half-lost in the trance, murmured, "Breathe. I'll help you. I'm almost –"

Legolas bolted upright, knocking him back, vaulting over the sofa and across the room. He landed on his feet, wild-eyed, one hand pressed to his chest.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I cannot. I cannot do this. I'm sorry."

Aragorn got painfully to his feet, clutching his shoulder. It had struck the table edge as he fell.

"Legolas, wait," he said. "You can do this. Please."

Legolas met his gaze. His eyes were dark and liquid with sorrow. Slowly he shook his head.

"I thought that I could," he whispered. "I am sorry, Aragorn."

He pulled open the door behind him, and was gone.


	53. To Hold On

I have been one acquainted with the night.

-- Robert Frost

Chapter 52: To Hold On

The morning of the Mirkwood Elves' departure dawned cool and clear. Half the sky was lit in hues of red and gold, and the white mist rose from the Pelennor fields. Upon the plain the figures of Elves and horses moved like visions of a dream, half-glimpsed through the fog. But as the sun crept over the hills the mist faded and the soldiers and horses and gear grew in definition, becoming undeniably real. They were striking the camp.

Aragorn watched from his study window, his arms folded in front of him. With each passing minute the sun rose higher, the field became clearer and the knot in his chest wound tighter.

The bowl of athelas still rested on the table behind him, its water now cool. The furniture was in disarray: couch cushions scattered over the floor, chairs knocked aside. Aragorn's fall had rocked the low table, and some of the water had slopped over the bowl's edge and onto the floor. It seeped into a large damp spot on the rug.

Gimli had left nearly as quickly as Legolas, last night. Aragorn had started after them and had made it as far as the first stair landing before his legs failed and he crumpled to his knees, his head spinning. He was shaking and exhausted, drained by the effort to sustain the healing trance.

By the time he forced himself to his feet again the Elf and Dwarf were gone, vanished into the darkness outside. They did not return.

Aragorn had waited through the long hours in a state of mingled hope and dread. Several times he started for the door, only to halt again with fists clenched and heart pounding. Even if he could find Legolas he could not force him to come back. The Elf had pushed himself to the breaking point in their efforts that night. Aragorn could ask no more of him now.

With a healer's instincts Aragorn knew that the worst possible thing would be to push Legolas into trying again too soon. The best that he could do for Legolas now, as his friend and as a healer, was to leave him to make his own choice in peace. It was one of the hardest things that he had ever done.

He had felt the power of the shadow over Legolas, and he knew that with every hour it grew, sinking its claws deeper into the Elf, draining more of his life force. With every hour Aragorn paced, sick with weariness and fear. At every small sound he stopped, listening, hoping to catch the tramp of Dwarven boots or the light tread of an Elf's foot upon the floor.

But none came. And as the night sky lightened to a deep blue and the stars winked out one by one, despair washed over Aragorn in a leaden wave. He had done everything in his power to give Legolas some hope, some slight chance for healing, and he had failed.

He was standing at the window, watching as the Elves broke camp, when Arwen entered the room.

"Good morning," she said, and then drew up short as she saw his face. "What's wrong?"

Aragorn did not answer. Arwen came to stand next to him, laying a hand on his arm to turn him toward her. "You did not come to bed last night," she said. "Something is troubling you – what is it?"

"Last night Legolas came to me for aid," Aragorn said. "He gave me the chance to heal him . . . and I failed. I could not help him."

Arwen released a slow breath. "Oh my love," she said softly. "I'm sorry."

Aragorn turned away, running a hand through his hair as he paced across the room. "The shadow upon him was so dark . . . I do not know how it is that he still lives, much less remains conscious."

"He is strong," Arwen said.

Aragorn laughed and shook his head. "If I did not know that before, I would surely know it now. But all his strength only means that he will linger a little longer like this, in misery. I was his last chance for healing, and I failed him."

It was a moment before Arwen replied. When she did she spoke slowly, as though choosing her words with care. "You are a great healer, my love. But you were also the instrument of Dragaer's first assault on Legolas, and you are ultimately the reason for his suffering now. Is it so strange that he has difficulty accepting your touch?"

Aragorn passed a hand over his face. "No," he said. His voice was thick. "But, Eru, what other choice is there? If I cannot help him, what hope is left?"

"There are other powers in Middle-earth besides you, Aragorn," Arwen said with just a touch of asperity. "Who can know what the Valar intend? Perhaps Legolas' path lies elsewhere. Perhaps you are meant to part from him now."

Aragorn looked at her, startled. She walked forward to take his hand. "There are others who also need you," she said. "Others who love you, and for whom your touch causes no pain." She guided his hand to rest on the low swell of her belly.

Aragorn drew a shuddering breath. He pulled her to him, burying his face in her hair. He clung to her, shaking, and she felt the heat of his breath against her neck. They remained like that as the minutes ticked away in silence, and then she heard him whisper, "But I love him."

Something ached deep within her at those words, but whether she grieved for him or for herself she did not know. She drew back enough to look into his face.

"I know," she said. "That is why you must let him go."

He shook his head. "I cannot. He gave everything to save me -- I cannot now simply stand back and watch him die."

"And if he does not want you?"

"Then I will respect his wishes. But I will ask -- and I will keep asking, for as long as he will listen. He kept faith and stayed with me through all the hours of my darkness. I will not abandon him in his."

Arwen studied him. Aragorn's jaw was set, his eyes lit at the prospect of the challenge ahead. It was that determination that had drawn her to him so many years ago, that unyielding sense of loyalty and devotion that set him apart from all his ancestors. This was Aragorn, the man she loved: warrior, healer, leader and King. Perhaps she would never claim his heart for hers alone. But, she thought, perhaps so great a heart as his would not be lessened for the sharing.

She sighed. "So be it. I will help you if I can."

*~*~*

"I thought it went fairly well, considering," Gimli said.

Legolas did not answer. He was brushing Arod with long strokes, preparatory to their departure. His quiver and knives were at his back, his bow and few personal belongings stored away in Gimli's cart. All around them the Elves were breaking camp. Most of the tents had already been struck. The mist had burned away and the muddy field was bright with the morning sunshine. They would be ready to leave within the hour.

"He did a little good after all, didn't he? Aragorn," Gimli persisted. "You've got some color back, anyway."

Legolas flushed. He could still feel the press of Aragorn's hand like a warm compress against his chest. The energy and strength that had flowed out of that touch lingered, affecting him like a draught of wine, or the song of the forest on a spring day.

He had known of Aragorn's abilities, of course, and over the years he had witnessed the Man's healing skill applied to countless others, and had experienced it himself more than once. But he had forgotten the power of Aragorn's touch.

In the weeks since Dragaer's assault Legolas had achieved a stalemate of sorts with the shadow. He had survived the initial rape in part by Gimli's intervention, for as painful as the Dwarf's clumsy intrusion had been, he had still shielded Legolas from the full horror of all too perfect memory that drove most Elves into the refuge of death. He had taken the worst of it on himself, the physical pain and humiliation, and when Legolas was weakest Gimli had forged a path for him back to consciousness and life.

His contact with Elessar through the palantír had driven him down again into the void, for though Gimli had blunted the horror-death's teeth it still cut deep. The swift, ruthless ease with which Elessar had overpowered him was all too like the rape again, for he was weak and could do naught but watch as his mind and body were laid open against his will.

When he fought his way back from that he had done it in the knowledge that he did so alone. The accumulation of betrayals was too great for him to trust anyone again. In the aftermath of repeated assaults upon his mind and body even Gimli's touch was too much to bear. It no longer mattered if the intrusion were done out of love or hate, to hurt or to heal. Passing through the barrier into the waking world he had been forced to remember and to re-live every moment, every caress, every humiliation wrought both by those he had hated and by those he had loved. The feeble shield of the sea-longing was stripped away along with every bond of friendship, of love, and of family that he had ever known.

It broke him. He had won through, and survived, but he was broken. The shadow bore down upon him, and the void gaped within him, vast and cold and consuming. The people around him seemed no more real than puppets in a play: they moved and spoke to some purpose of their own, far removed and unimportant to him.

At most he recalled the memory of emotion when he looked at them, knowing that they had once meant a great deal to him but unable to feel it now. He was surrounded by ghosts: the faded remnants of affection for Gimli, of devotion to Arwen, of love and trepidation for his father.

He hoped, in a distant way, that they did not sense this. He had tried to perform his part in their play, but he knew his efforts to be insufficient. Gimli could see through him, and his father and brothers certainly knew that their bond was gone. Legolas saw the knowledge in Thranduil's eyes each time his father looked at him, and curled a little further in upon himself in shame.

The only emotions he truly felt now were those that the shadow fed upon: shame, and guilt, and anger. He imagined himself like a tree near Dol Guldur: his _faer_ still clinging to life but bent and twisted by the weight of shadow, distorted beyond recognition.

He had fought his entire adult life under the shadow over Mirkwood, and he knew how it felt. Then as now he had beaten the darkness to a standstill, but he did not pretend that it was anything like a victory. Theirs was a war of attrition, and he knew himself to be under siege.

He could not win. But he thought that he could endure a little longer, as the trees had endured, bent and empty though they were, clinging with twisted roots to the bank of a long dead riverbed. Turned in upon himself, trusting none but his own strength, giving no opening or weakness by which an outsider might undermine him, he would survive hour by hour and day by day: for a month, a year, for the single life of one Man.

But that Man! He had thought himself removed, but he had not accounted for the power that Aragorn still held over him. He alone refused to be made distant or unreal, and even without the bond he compelled such strong emotions in Legolas that it frightened him.

At first there had been only those welcomed by the shadow: emptiness and hurt, and shame, for Aragorn alone knew every detail of his breaking, for he had witnessed it through the palantír. Thus had he felt when he summoned Aragorn to the Houses of Healing, and thus had he felt when he offered himself in exchange for Gimli's life.

But the more time he spent with Aragorn the more he remembered of their past friendship, the years during which Aragorn had grown from a stripling youth into a Man possessed, Legolas had thought, of wisdom and strength and honor. Aragorn had saved Legolas' life after the Orcs attacked in southern Mirkwood: the first time that he had summoned the power of the Kings and accepted his heritage. Legolas had saved Aragorn in turn the following year, when the ice had broken beneath the boy's feet as they were crossing a frozen lake and Legolas had plunged in after him.

They had fought and been injured and recovered together. They had shared quiet nights of reflection and little talk, and drunken celebrations in the halls of Mirkwood and of Rivendell. They had laughed together. Legolas had commiserated with Aragorn during the long years when it seemed as though his courtship of Arwen would never succeed, and Gondor would forever be beyond his grasp. When Gilraen had died Aragorn had buried his reaction for a full month, as befit a leader of the Rangers, until Legolas had arrived in response to the urgent summons to Rivendell. Legolas alone would he admit to his mother's chamber; and Legolas alone stayed with him through the long day and night of his grief.

And after all of that Aragorn had betrayed him. Nay – the betrayal had come before, for Aragorn had lusted for him in his heart, though he said that he had not known it. The knowledge of that, of all that he had given for this Man and all that Elessar had taken from him, swept Legolas with a blind, burning fury.

In rage he had attacked Aragorn in his chamber at Dol Amroth, but the direction that attack had taken surprised even Legolas. In his fury he had wanted to injure Aragorn, to hurt him as Legolas himself had been hurt, but the threat of rape caught Legolas nearly as completely off guard as it had Aragorn.

The thought had not occurred to him until the moment his mouth pressed to Aragorn's, and then it sprang full-fledged in his mind, as though he had planned it all along. He remembered very little of the fight that had followed. He had come back to himself in a moment of sanity to find Aragorn bleeding upon the ground at his feet and the anger ebbing from him, leaving him distant and empty as before.

He was badly shaken. He was one of the Eldar, the Firstborn of Ilúvatar created by the One in His love: immortal, wise and fair. From the time that he was first old enough to understand he had been taught that the act of love was sacred, the physical joining no less than the spiritual bond. To commit rape was to be guilty of the foulest perversion of Ilúvatar's blessing: the corruption of light into darkness, love into hate, joy into despair. It was a device of the Enemy's, one of the distorted chords, the Eldar said, that Morgoth had woven into the Song of Creation. Only those whose hearts were turned to the shadow could do such a thing: Orcs and those mortals who were Orcs in all but name.

Even after all that Legolas had experienced, he should not have been able to conceive of committing such a desecration upon another.

But he had.

He had consented to attempt Aragorn's healing as much to test himself as to please Gimli. He had to know how deeply the shadow had taken hold, how much of himself had been lost. He thought that if he could submit to Aragorn without retaliation then it would be evidence that the shadow had not won, that his oaths still had meaning, that despite the Valar's rejection he was still Legolas, son of Thranduil, a child of light and not of darkness.

But Aragorn's touch had come as the breaking of a dam: a torrent of such strength that it shattered Legolas' shields and crashed through his defenses without thought. It was not just Aragorn's power that caught him off-guard. He had experienced that before, and he was prepared for it. But Aragorn was near despair, and the intensity of his fear and love evoked such a strong response in Legolas that it completely overwhelmed him.

For weeks he had held against the darkness, balanced on the knife's edge that he had carved between the shadow's weight without and the crushing void within, and now in an instant he nearly lost it all. He could have matched Aragorn's will, and held against his power, his anger, and even his love. But he could not stand indifferent to his pain.

Aragorn's honest love and grief and guilt formed the driving force behind the rush of energy he gave to Legolas, and that breached his protective isolation and touched him to the core. The love born of a lifetime of friendship welled up in response like a dead spring gushing to life, a river that swept before it the dry bones of its bed and sucked the earth from between twisted tree roots, undermining what little stability he had.

He panicked. At the last instant he broke away, rejecting both the healing strength that Aragorn offered and the love that threatened to undo him. He had survived by forsaking the bonds to his family, to his friends, to Gimli and especially to Aragorn. But now his own heart betrayed him, and in an instant he was laid open, vulnerable to any hurt the Man might do to him.

Legolas was in control, Aragorn had said, over and over again. Nothing could happen without his consent. But it was not true. He might resist Aragorn, given time to rebuild his defenses. But he could not also fight his own responses. He was too weak, too weary and too confused even to try.

After he had calmed, the thought occurred to him that in one thing at least the experiment had been successful: it proved that he was not wholly lost to the shadow. He could still feel pity as well as shame, love as well as fear. There was some comfort in that.

It was for pity that he acquiesced to Aragorn's request to try again one last time. It had been a mistake, Aragorn said: the rush of energy had come too fast, harder than he intended. It had been a mistake. He would not make it again. And as he said that, pleading for another chance, he had sounded more like Estel than he had for many years.

So at the final test Legolas lay down, in pity for the man and love for the boy that he had once been. But even as he stretched himself upon the couch the panic bubbled up in his chest, choking his breath. He forced it down, gripping the cushions for support. He was in Minas Tirith. Gimli was here, and Arwen was in the next room. The door and windows were unlocked. He was free, Aragorn said, he could leave at any time.

But as Aragorn came to stand over him the sense memory struck him with full force, sweeping away rational knowledge in a rush of primal fear. The air was too thin, burning in his lungs. He panted searing gasps, the sweat breaking out on his forehead. He was trapped, helpless, and any moment Elessar would –

He forced himself to still, trembling, waiting in obedience to the oath that he had sworn to this man. Dark though that vow was, forced from him in twisted mockery of the love he had given freely, he had sworn to serve Aragorn as his King, and to that he must hold. The alternative was to admit that his oaths were as meaningless as any servant of the Enemy's, and to let the shadow take him entirely.

Aragorn knelt beside him. Legolas fixed his eyes upon the chamber ceiling: a ceiling of stone, not of fabric or of wood. _Minas Tirith_, he repeated to himself, struggling to hold on to this reality, this present moment as a rock while the river of memory swirled about him. _I am in Minas Tirith_. But he could smell the tent's fabric still warm from the desert sun, and he could hear the creak of the ship's hull in the waves.

Aragorn's touch, when it came, was gentle. Like a ray of sunlight breaking through Mirkwood's canopy the healing energy stole through him, bringing warmth and light where for so long there had been only darkness. Behind that gentleness he could sense the fear and power that had first battered him, now checked by Aragorn's control. He could feel the man's strength, his determination as he carefully gave only as much as Legolas could take.

Legolas' eyes closed as the warmth increased, the tension slowly easing from his muscles. For the first time since he had heard the cry of the gulls at the Pelagir four years ago he felt a sense of peace. The thought came to him as clearly as though Aragorn had spoken the words: _You are not alone. You are safe. You are loved._

Tears pricked behind his eyes at the kindness of that thought, the tenderness. He drew a shuddering breath, and slowly, slowly the last of his defenses began to lower. The darkness was not all. There was light, and peace, and strength waiting for him, and he was not alone any longer.

It was then that the shadow struck back. Legolas felt it as a physical pain clutching him, sinking into his heart and _faer_ and the most secret, most violated places of his body. He jerked bodily, gasping. He could sense Aragorn struggling to reach him, to help him in this fight. But the shadow choked Aragorn's light and turned his words back upon themselves, shading them with nightmare meaning.

_You are not alone_. No, he had never been alone, for had not Elessar watched him all these months in the palantír?

_You are safe_. And that was the promise that Elessar had made from the beginning, to imprison and dominate and control him, all in service of his own warped definition of what it meant to be _safe._

_You are loved_. Yes, and that was the most monstrous thing of all, for he did not doubt that Elessar did love him, in his fashion, and it was that love that had grown twisted and dark and wrong, driving his obsession and fueling his lust.

With all his strength Legolas shoved Aragorn back, slamming closed the connection that had nearly formed between them. He felt a fleeting regret as the light failed and the darkness closed in once more. But he had fought the shadow to a standstill before, and he would do so again, alone.

His defenses were undermined, the ground caving away beneath him, and he dared not give any quarter or show any vulnerability, not even for the promise of aid. The weight of shadow was crushing him, and the void howled within him, and he could not trust Aragorn to catch him if he fell.

"So I was thinking," Gimli said. "There's no need for us to leave right away, is there? You could stay a bit longer, and try again. We could always go on to Eryn Lasgalen later."

Legolas blinked. Arod was standing before him, his head down as he nosed the beaten grass. The brush was in Legolas' hand. Gimli was seated on a pile of rolled tents facing him, his stick beside him. His pipe was in his mouth. He could not smoke it for fear of aggravating his chest injury, but he seemed to gain some comfort simply from having it nearby.

"What?" Legolas said.

"We could stay awhile," Gimli said patiently. "Eryn Lasgalen'll still be there in a week or two. Maybe you just need a bit more time, to let Aragorn heal you."

Legolas shook his head. These lapses had become more frequent in recent days: blank periods when the memories overwhelmed him, whiting out all outside perceptions for whole minutes at a time. It was, he supposed, a symptom of the increasing strength of the shadow, made worse by the long weeks without sleep and the strain of the previous night. He would have to work harder to prevent such lapses in the future.

"I did as you requested," he said. "I tried." He shrugged his shoulders in an effort to belie the sting of his failure. "I could not do it. No further good can come of remaining in Minas Tirith."

Gimli was not fooled by the attempt at carelessness. "You don't know that. I still say that Aragorn achieved something, and it won't do any harm to try again. It could help."

Legolas' jaw tightened. He turned his attention back to Arod, avoiding Gimli's eyes. "You seem ill-suited determine when harm is done, Master Dwarf."

"I'm better suited to it than you are," Gimli shot back. He took his pipe from his mouth and stabbed with the stem in Legolas' direction. "The problem is you're too scared to be objective. You'd rather fail and give up than admit the risk that Aragorn can help you. You're afraid to try."

Legolas rounded on him angrily, but drew up short before he spoke. An Avari warrior was cutting a path through the milling camp toward them. Reaching them, he acknowledged Gimli with a nod and bowed low to Legolas, his hand over his heart. "Your Highness, the leave-taking ceremony is to be in an hour's time at the city gate. King Thranduil requests you to attend."

"Thank you," Legolas said. "Tell His Majesty that I will come."

"Aye, my lord," the Elf said. But he remained a moment longer, seeming hesitant.

Legolas looked at him. "There is more?"

"Yes, my lord. The mortal King, Elessar, desires to speak with you before the ceremony."

Legolas held himself still. It is not, after all, unexpected, he thought. Several moments ticked past before he remembered that they were watching him for an answer. He released a breath. "Very well," he said. "You may go."

"Aye, my lord." The Elf bowed again and departed.

Gimli looked at him. "You'll see him?"

"It seems that he will see me," Legolas said. "You may yet get your wish, Master Dwarf; my cowardice notwithstanding."

Gimli looked as if he would protest this statement, but Legolas was already turning away. He went first to the command tent, which now stood alone in the center of the army's camp, all the other tents having been packed away. There he exchanged his hunting tunic and vambraces for the silver robe and circlet that were laid out for him. The royal family would be expected to look the part as they took formal leave of Minas Tirith.

But he could not help feeling, as he adjusted the circlet over his hair, as though he were donning jewelry and fine clothes in anticipation of his meeting with Aragorn. For a moment the memory gripped him full force: the smell of scorched wool and athelas and air too close to breathe. _A Prince of Eryn Lasgalen made catamite to Elessar of Gondor_ . . . he shuddered.

Gimli was waiting for him when he stepped outside. Together they made their way through the camp as the Elves fell back to clear a path for them. The streets of Minas Tirith were crowded, but the Elf and Dwarf were quickly recognized and Men moved respectfully aside to let them pass. Two of the Elvenking's guards followed unobtrusively behind them.

By the time they reached the citadel Legolas' heart was pounding. It was not from exertion, though the climb had taxed Gimli's strength, but sheer nervousness left Legolas feeling weak. Aragorn was waiting for him. He could not quite catch his breath.

Faramir was hearing petitions in the citadel throne room, attended by some twenty councilors and courtiers who sat on benches along the walls or stood in a loose group around the Steward's chair. There was no sign of Aragorn. For a moment Legolas feared that they would be directed to the King's study, the site of the previous night's disastrous session. He did not think he could stand to enter that room again today. But Faramir came forward to greet them, and led them out of the marble hall and past the staircase that led to the Royal Chambers, on through the citadel to a seldom used corridor with a narrow door at its end.

"The King left instructions that you were to be received in the Queen's Garden," he said.

Legolas thanked him and, leaving the Elven escort to take their positions on either side of the door, followed Gimli into the garden.

It was a small area, no more than a quarter-acre square, carpeted with soft grass still damp with the morning dew. Slender trees of ash and maple, planted after the War, stretched out new leaves that shone like mirrors in the sunlight. A small waterfall trickled between the rocks at the north end and fell into a clear pool. The garden was encircled by a sheltering wall of white stone, five feet high, and the beds along its base were thick with flowers.

A table was set in the center of the lawn with a white linen cloth, a heavy crystal decanter of wine and a platter of sweetbread. Around it were arranged several chairs of wrought iron, and there sat the King and Queen of Gondor.

Aragorn rose to greet them as they entered. He was also dressed for the leave-taking ceremony in rich robes of scarlet, though he had not yet donned the winged crown of Gondor. At his side Arwen was a vision in a gown of pale green, her hair bound in a net of jewels.

Legolas felt marginally better for her presence. He halted at the edge of the grass and dropped to one knee, bowing his head. His stomach clenched as he did so and he felt a sudden urge to bolt, panic threading his muscles as the memory rose like a shadow blotting out the sky, transforming the grass into a tent floor upon hard sand. Elessar's voice was in his ears, _On your knees_ . . .

He forced the memory down, trembling. _You swore to serve him_, he thought. _You swore_ . . . he clung to the discipline of that oath as to an anchor. Slowly the panic retreated. The sky cleared and he felt again the sun warm on his back and the grass cool beneath him. Aragorn was speaking.

" – no need for formality here. Rise, please. Legolas, please rise." He was trying to keep his voice light, belying the tension that he must feel as acutely as Legolas did.

Legolas got to his feet. Aragorn gestured toward the table. "Please, join us."

Legolas eyed the arrangement of table and chairs. Rationally he knew that there was no real danger: Elessar would not attempt another attack while Arwen and Gimli were present. But on a deeper, instinctual level he saw that the table was an obstacle to flight, and the heavy iron chairs could serve to fence and bludgeon a captive into submission.

_Do not be absurd_, he chided himself. If Aragorn intended that, he would have done it last night, or in the Houses. But all the same he could not bring himself to step willingly into the trap.

He spoke as though he had not heard Aragorn. "You summoned me, my lord?"

Aragorn lowered his hand. "I had hoped to speak with you before the leave-taking," he said. "Thank you for coming."

Legolas did not answer. Aragorn exchanged a glance with Arwen before continuing. "I wanted to talk with you about last night. I know that it was . . . very hard, for you. I'm sorry. I didn't intend to hurt you."

_I didn't mean to . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything._ Legolas pushed aside the memories that rose with those words. The divisions between the waking world and the shadow were worn so thin now that the slightest provocation would bring the horror rushing back, overpowering all else.

"You have said that before, my lord. And yet it keeps happening."

The color drained from Aragorn's face. He looked away.

Arwen stood up. "There is a difference, however. This hurt was unavoidable, as necessary as the lancing of a wound. You cannot hide from it forever, Legolas. It is destroying you."

She spoke Common, but the word she used had an additional meaning in Sindarin, _gwathra_, the dimming, the destruction of the soul. Legolas looked at her and she met his eyes, holding him in a steady gaze.

"It cannot be helped, my lady," he said at last.

"It _can_," she said. "Why did your father leave Aragorn alive, Legolas? Because he knew that he can help you. Even if he cannot admit it, Thranduil knows what Estel means to you, and what you mean to him. There is power there, enough to defeat this shadow."

Legolas turned his face away. He heard the rustle of her skirts as she crossed the lawn toward him. He could smell the scent of her hair; feel the warmth of her body as she came to stand before him.

"Look at me, please," she said.

Slowly he raised his eyes to her. The Evenstar, she shone with an internal light, the life she carried making her more beautiful than ever before. "It was not him who did this," she said. "He fought it – you yourself told me how he fought, when I had given up all hope. Can you not trust him now?"

Legolas drew a shaky breath. Bending his head over hers he whispered, "Do you truly know what I mean to him, Lady? Would you send me back to him if you did?"

Arwen's breath caught. She stepped back, looking stricken. Legolas held her gaze until she looked away.

He bowed to her then and said, "I await your command, my Queen. Will you order me to stay?"

Arwen did not answer.

"Come now," Legolas said. "You bade me go to him before, and stay with him, for his sake. For my sake, will you not send me to him now?" There was cruelty in the words, and cruelty in his voice, and a part of him hated himself for it. But the greater part of him was removed, watching through the shadow-curtain that separated him from them, and simply did not care.

"That's enough," Gimli said.

Legolas whirled on him. "I have sworn no oath to _you_, Master Dwarf. I gave you your chance, and you did not take it. You have no part in this."

"Legolas, stop," Aragorn said.

Legolas froze. Slowly he straightened, and slowly he turned to face the King. "Yes, my lord?"

"I know that it's hard," Aragorn said. "Eru knows you have reason to be angry. But no harm will come to you here. We need do nothing until you are ready. However long it takes, we can wait."

Legolas stared at him. "I told you once before, Elessar, what was required for me to agree. Now I ask you again, do you command me to stay?"

As he said the words a mad, unreasoning urge seized him to cry, to shout, to take Aragorn by the shoulders and beg him, _Please, order me, command me, take this decision from me. I cannot trust, do not ask me to trust, but please, do not leave me to fight alone._

His fists clenched as he waited, his heart pounding, but he did not speak.

Then Aragorn shook his head. "I command nothing, Legolas. I only ask that you try. Please. Let me help."

It was nothing more than Legolas should have expected from him: indeed a year ago it would not have occurred to him that Aragorn might be capable of any other response. Of all Men he was the best suited to wield the power of Kingship precisely because he had never wanted that power.

In his current drained, exhausted and confused state, Legolas could not even have said that he truly wanted Aragorn to give the order. If he did, would it not after all be confirmation that he was not the man that Legolas had once thought he was? But the disappointment that washed through him was no less acute for that.

He closed his eyes. "Then there is nothing further for me here." Turning on his heel, he walked away.

"Legolas, wait," Aragorn said, but he said it without force, leaving the option open, and Legolas did not stop.

He heard Gimli fall in behind him as he crossed the grass. He reached the gravel path and still the order did not come. He went on, listening at every step to hear the words that would halt him, the command that would take the unbearable choice from him and remove any necessity to love or to trust. He waited for Aragorn to call upon the only thing left to him under the shadow: the requirement to obey. It did not come.

He reached the citadel door, and still Aragorn did not speak.

Legolas opened the door. Still Aragorn did not use the one weapon he held over him: the oath sworn against his will, the power to command him even over the shadow.

Because he did not, the love that might have died in that moment flickered and caught anew: a tiny flame that burned alone under the shadow's darkness. But because he did not, Legolas passed through the door and walked on, through the citadel and out of the gates, down to where the army waited.

He took his place among them, and when the commanders gathered for the ceremonial leave-taking before the city gates he hung back, avoiding Aragorn's gaze. When the Elvenking signaled their departure he mounted Arod and took his place behind his father with Gimli in his cart at his side. And when they reached the Rammas Echor he did not pause but rode on, away from Minas Tirith and away from Aragorn, his head held high and the great army coming behind, and he did not look back.


	54. The Choice

"I call heaven and earth to witness this day that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing . . . therefore choose life, that thou and thy seed may live."

-- Deuteronomy 30:19

Chapter 53: The Choice

_Eight Months Later_

Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapped around Arwen, supporting her as she leaned back against his chest. She was breathing hard, the light fabric of her shift drenched in sweat. Her hair was tied up off of her neck, but stray wisps had fallen from the mass and tickled Aragorn's cheek.

"That's it," Ioreth said from her seat between Arwen's legs. "The passage is fully open now. When the next pain comes do not fight it. Bear down and push."

Arwen nodded wearily. Aragorn hugged her. He still could not quite believe that it was finally happening: the birth of his son. He had entered a light healing trance at the onset of labor, channeling what strength he could to Arwen during the pains. After more than two hours he was completely attuned to her, the bond between them stronger than he had ever felt it before. He felt her muscles tense and his breath caught at the same moment that hers did. He breathed out, visualizing light and strength flowing with his breath through him and into her.

Arwen cried out, gripping his thighs with bruising force as she strained, raising herself almost off the birth stool.

"Good!" Ioreth said. "Good – he's crowning. Now once more, my lady, just like that."

Aragorn wanted to protest – surely she could have a rest first? He had caught only the echoes of her pain through their bond: he suspected that Arwen was trying to shield him from the worst of it. But the ordeal had exhausted him. Did all women suffer this much in childbirth? If so it was a wonder that any ever had more than one.

Arwen tensed again, and this time Aragorn had no chance to send her his energy, because she was dragging it from him faster than he could give it. Whatever barrier she had kept between them was cast aside as she focused their combined strength on bearing their child.

"Yell if you need to," Ioreth said, her attention focused where Aragorn could not see. "It can help."

Arwen shrieked; a sound that pierced straight through Aragorn and kindled within him a fierce desire to fight, to kill whatever enemy dared to hurt his wife. But this pain came from inside her, and he could do naught but hold her as she strained with bone-aching force while muscles contracted and soft flesh tore.

Then she fell back against him, panting, and Ioreth said, "Yes! I have the head now. One more and it should be over."

"Wonderful," Arwen gasped.

Aragorn kissed her temple. "You're doing beautifully, my love."

"You be quiet," she said. "You're the one who got me into this."

Her breath caught as she strained again, every muscle tensed, her nails digging painfully into Aragorn's legs as her hands clenched. He winced. Arwen had been determined that theirs would be an Elven birth in every detail right down to the father's position physically supporting the mother during labor. She was more frightened than she would admit, Aragorn knew, by the prospect of giving birth as a mortal.

Aragorn had backed her in this, wanting to help her and having no desire to miss the birth of his son, and together their combined wishes had overridden the midwife's objections. But now he wondered if Ioreth might have had a point. His muscles were cramped and his beloved wife was soaked in sweat and growing increasingly heavy, to say nothing of her assaults on his body during the contractions. He suspected that Arwen might also be having second thoughts about their arrangement, judging by how she pulled away from him during the intervals of rest, as though his touch aggravated her.

Arwen groaned; a sound that seemed to come from deep inside her, like the creaking of a tree in a gale. "That's it!" Ioreth cried. "I have him now, a beautiful baby boy."

Arwen collapsed, half-laughing, half-crying, and nearly knocked Aragorn over. He was craning his neck to see, but Arwen's knee was blocking his view. Ioreth's head was bent as she did something, and then he heard a piercing wail. Something seemed to crumble within him at the sound.

Ioreth's assistants sprang into motion, one hurrying forward with a basin of warm water, the other fetching two lengths of cord and a sharp knife from the wash stand. For what seemed an interminable length of time but could only have been a few minutes they worked together, and then finally Ioreth lifted a tiny bundle and laid it in Arwen's arms.

Aragorn stared down over her shoulder at the little red face that peeked up from its swaddling. The eyes looked clouded, squeezed in slits above plump cheeks, and a shock of dark hair fell over the forehead. The rosebud mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and a tiny fist waved in the air. Then the whole face contorted in a purposeful cry.

_He's hungry_, Aragorn thought, and then, _how did I know that? _Arwen pulled aside the fabric of her shift and then hesitated, seeming unsure of what to do next.

"Here," Ioreth said, and showed her how to support the infant to feed. As she did so the fold of the blanket fell back from the baby's head, revealing a tiny, ever so slightly pointed ear.

A warm surge of protectiveness filled Aragorn as he watched. Arwen looked up and caught his eye, smiling, and he smiled back. _My son_, he thought in wonder. _Dear Eru, my son._

"Your Majesty."

Aragorn looked up. Ioreth's senior helper, a solid woman with a matronly air, was studying him with a set expression. When he met her eyes she dropped a small curtsy, but looked none the less determined. "The Queen is very tired, my lord. If Your Majesty permits we will change the bedclothes and help her to bathe so that she can rest." She paused and then added pointedly, "We will let you know when she is ready to receive you again."

There were other reasons they wanted him gone, Aragorn knew – the afterbirth was still to come, and doubtless there would be other messy details known only to women. He decided that he had made them tolerate his presence long enough.

"All right," he said. The woman slid an arm around Arwen's shoulders as he eased himself back. His limbs were slow to respond: he was cramped and stiff after holding position for so long. Pins and needles stabbed his left leg as he moved it, and he grimaced, rubbing his knee until it felt strong enough to stand.

He bent to kiss Arwen before he left. "I'll be in the next room," he said. "Call me if you need anything at all."

She looked half asleep, her eyes glazed, but she roused at his touch. "I'll be fine," she said. "Try to get some rest." She paused and looked at him seriously for a moment. "You were wonderful," she said. "Thank you."

"Mine was the easy part," he said. "You did it all, my love. My _Tinúviel_."

She smiled. Then her attention turned back to the infant in her arms. He had sucked for only a few minutes before falling asleep. His small body was limp, his face slack. His eyes had almost closed, but Aragorn could see the tiniest edge of grey iris beneath his lashes.

Someone coughed behind him. He realized that he was staring at his son with a foolish grin on his face. As he stepped aside the two assistants moved in to help Arwen to shift position so that her back was against the bed cushions.

At the doorway he stopped and caught Ioreth's arm. "The Queen may be hurt. I felt – that is, I think something tore, during the labor."

Ioreth looked surprised. "Yes, my lord. The Prince's head was too large for the birth passage, and the skin tore as it came through. She may need one or two stitches, and will be sore for a few days, but do not worry. She will be fine. It is not an uncommon thing. But how did you – ?"

"Just a feeling," Aragorn said. "Call me when you are ready to proceed. I have some supplies which will help."

Ioreth looked as though she would protest, but seeing his expression she changed her mind. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Very good. And – thank you, for everything."

He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and went out into the entrance hall. As the door closed behind him he paused to get his bearings. He felt slightly dazed. In that room was his son: a living, breathing, wholly separate and unique person who had not existed an hour before. It all seemed not quite real.

He needed to do something. The announcement – he should write the announcement of the Prince's birth. The naming ceremony would not be for a week, but the proclamation would be read in the streets of Minas Tirith that evening. Grateful for a concrete task on which to focus, he crossed the hall to his study and opened the door.

The first thing he noticed was that the room was cold. The fire had died and a chill draft blew from the open window. _Who left it open? _he thought, and then looked up, and stopped in his tracks.

Legolas was standing at the open window.

The Elf turned as he came in. For several long moments they looked at each other in silence. Aragorn's mind was whirling; there were a thousand things that he wanted to say. In the first weeks after Legolas had left Minas Tirith he had rehearsed dozens of times for this moment: what he would say, what Legolas would say, how he would convince him to believe him. As the weeks had turned into months with no word he had gradually stopped listening for the Elf's step in the corridor. He had stopped waking in the night with the thought and its accompanying feelings of mingled hope and dread, _Perhaps he will come today._

As the months had gone by and summer had given way to fall and then to winter Legolas had slowly come to occupy his mind less and less. Thoughts of the Elf came to be tinged with grief and a sense of dull resignation. Aragorn knew that too much time had passed. Legolas had been dying when he left. The best Aragorn could hope for was that despite Legolas' prediction the Valar had welcomed him after all: that in death Legolas had found some peace at last. He told himself this and tried to accept that he would not see him again. But he could not repress the small, stubborn corner of himself that refused to accept defeat. Despite all he had seen and felt of the shadow that was crushing Legolas, despite everything, he had clung still to hope that his friend lived.

He wanted to tell Legolas this. He wanted to tell him how glad he was to see him on this day of all days, how incredible, how miraculous it was to see him alive. But when at last he found his voice the words that came were very different.

"I have a son."

"I know," Legolas said. His usually melodic voice was flat, his manner subdued. He was so thin that the bones of his face and hands were starkly visible beneath his skin. There was something insubstantial about him, as if in a moment he would simply vanish into the air. The winter sunshine streamed through the window, illuminating his hair, but its waves hung limp, lusterless even in the sunlight.

After a moment he seemed to rouse himself to add, "My congratulations."

Aragorn swallowed. "I searched for you," he said. "When we heard that you had left Eryn Lasgalen . . . I sent messengers to Imladris, to Lothlórien, to Ithilien . . . I went myself to Fangorn and to Dol Amroth . . ."

"I did not wish to be found," Legolas said. "I am sorry, Elessar."

"Call me Estel," Aragorn whispered. "Legolas, please, as you used to do. Call me Estel."

Legolas looked at him. Slowly he shook his head. "I cannot," he said. "Not yet." He paused and then said, "You could have used the palantír to find me."

"Not I," Aragorn said. "Arwen might, or Faramir . . . I cannot. I will not."

Legolas did not answer for a long moment. He looked away, out of the window into the snowy courtyard below. Finally he sighed.

"That is not what I meant to speak about. I came here to ask you a question."

"Anything," Aragorn said.

"What was your choice?"

Aragorn blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Legolas turned to face him, and for the first time there was emotion in his face. His eyes were intent. "The day he died, Captain Dragaer said that you had made your choice. I heard his voice as I was waking in the Houses of Healing. He said that your choice was plain before you. What did he mean? What was your choice?"

His words stirred memories that Aragorn had buried long ago: of that nightmare day, of fear and despair and the smell of blood. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He swallowed.

"I had offered Dragaer a deal. I told him that if he called off his army I would go with him, and he could take his vengeance on me. I only wanted him to spare the people of Minas Tirith."

"And the choice?"

Aragorn sighed. "Dragaer did not trust me. In order to make the deal he wanted me to surrender to him another hostage as well, someone he could use as leverage over me. He told me to choose who else to give him: either Arwen, or you."

Legolas inhaled slowly. "Which did you choose?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I did not. I refused, and then Thranduil's army invaded. Dragaer fled to the Houses of Healing. You know the rest of it."

"But you must have known," Legolas said. "When he asked you, you must have known instinctively which you would choose. You must have thought about it afterward. What was your choice?"

"I didn't –"

"You _did._ You must have. _What was it?_"

Aragorn took a deep breath. Steeling himself, he looked full into Legolas' eyes. He owed him this honesty at least.

"You," he said. "I chose you. I knew what Dragaer planned for his captive, and . . . you had already endured the worst of it. You were a warrior of Mirkwood, trained to withstand torture and to fight. I could not bear the thought of Arwen . . . Even after all that you had been through, I would have had you suffer more rather than risk any hurt to her."

Legolas closed his eyes. For a long moment he remained thus, motionless. Aragorn held his breath, watching him.

Then Legolas opened his eyes. "So that is the way of it," he said. "If you are willing . . . I think we might try again."

*~*~*

"We were less than three days in Eryn Lasgalen," Gimli said. He was seated upon a low armchair, his feet stretched toward the fire. The windows of the guest chamber were rimmed with frost, but the room was warm. Dressed in a new tunic and leggings, with slippers on his feet and his hair still damp from his bath, Gimli looked entirely at home. He had discarded his stick, Aragorn noted, and his new beard curled almost to his chest.

"We went there by way of Aglarond. The Elvenking sent the army on ahead while he, Legolas and I and an escort of maybe fifty Elves stayed behind. I had business to attend to in the colony, and then there was the matter of building a vault to store the palantír. Most of the Wood-elves stayed up on the surface while we were there, but Legolas and Thranduil went down in the caves with me." He paused and looked at Aragorn.

"We were there for ten days. And in all that time Legolas didn't go back to the surface once."

Aragorn frowned. "He must have returned to the camp at night."

Gimli shook his head. "Thranduil did. But Legolas stayed in the guest room I built him two years ago." He sighed. "I'd only seen him use that room once before, and then only for a few hours. I delved it in the first level, and carpeted it and carved all sorts of trees and things into the walls, but it didn't make any difference. He tried to be polite, but he really couldn't abide being underground for long, any more than I could be comfortable up in one of his flets in Ithilien. Except for this time. This time he stayed. As if he just didn't care."

"Or as if he preferred it to dwelling in the Elves' camp," Aragorn said.

"Eh. Maybe," Gimli said. "Then during the journey he kept to himself, and when we finally got to Eryn Lasgalen he stuck to his rooms. When we rode up to the gates the green was filled with Elves wanting to see him, but once we got inside the stronghold he stayed in the family's private quarters. And as I said, we were only there a few days."

"Thranduil let you go?"

"He must have. We didn't have a formal leave-taking or anything like that – truth to tell we slipped out in the middle of the night and didn't tell anyone where we were going. But you've been to Mirkwood. It hasn't changed much since the War. Oh, the forest feels healthier, and there aren't so many spiders or wargs about, but the Elves keep patrolling as though Sauron were taking up residence again tomorrow. I'd lay mithril to little green apples that Thranduil knew exactly what we were doing, and he could have stopped us if he wanted."

Aragorn sat back in his chair. "I wonder why he didn't," he mused.

"I wondered that too. In the end I think he must have known it wouldn't do any good. The healers there couldn't do anything for Legolas. There wasn't anything to be gained by keeping him prisoner if he wanted to leave."

Aragorn nodded. "Where did you go?"

"Nowhere in particular, just away from there. I don't think Legolas had any destination in mind at first. We followed the river down to Dale, but Legolas wouldn't go near the town. Everywhere we went it was like that. I'd go in to buy supplies when we needed them, and he'd wait for me out in the wood or the fields. Considering all that happened I suppose it's no wonder that he wanted to avoid Men."

"But he kept you with him."

"Aye," Gimli said. "I spent the first few weeks afraid that he'd vanish while I was sleeping one night. I couldn't stop him if he wanted to leave – with that damned wound of mine I could hardly even ride for more than an hour or two at a time. He seemed determined to avoid every other person in Middle-earth, and all I was doing was slowing him down. But he stayed with me. I still don't know why."

Aragorn did not answer. He had no wish to hurt Gimli's pride, but he thought he knew why Legolas might have stayed with the Dwarf. In his injured state Gimli had been no threat to the Elf, and actually would have been vulnerable to attack if left alone. Perhaps Legolas needed to feel that someone depended on him. Protecting the Dwarf would have given him that much more ground on which to stand against the shadow; that much more reason to live.

Aloud he said, "You rode with Legolas on Arod, then?"

Gimli grunted. "I don't think any of us liked it, the horse included, but there wasn't much choice. I couldn't walk that far on my own. And Legolas . . . Durin's beard, he hated it. I could tell. He never complained, but his whole body would stiffen up when I took hold of him. I tried not to touch him the rest of the time, it bothered him so much, but when we were riding I didn't have any choice. It was either hold on or else fall off the blasted horse."

He shot Aragorn a look. "He wouldn't use a saddle, either. That pig-headed stubborn pride of his . . . I did manage to convince him to at least ride with the pad, to save me from being jolted to pieces, I said, but that was as far as he'd go."

He sighed. "For a long time it seemed as though we just wandered. We went west to Hollin and on nearly as far as the Shire, then turned back and skirted south of the mountains through Rohan, to the coast, to Fangorn . . . I asked Legolas what he was looking for, but he wouldn't answer me. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe he just had to keep moving."

"I went to Fangorn," Aragorn said. "But the Ents told me only that you had gone. They could not say where. I sent word to Lothlórien, and to Rivendell . . ."

"Those were the only places we did _not_ go," Gimli said. "Legolas refused to set foot anywhere near any Elven settlement until the very end. When I asked him why all he would say is that they couldn't help him. But it wasn't as if he was getting any help from the empty plains either."

Aragorn said nothing. He was thinking of something that Legolas had said to him back in Dol Amroth, of how it felt to face a crowd of ten thousand and know that they all knew . . . he wondered, how did Legolas now appear to Elven eyes? Given the unique senses of the Eldar, could they actually see the shadow upon him, as Aragorn had when in the healing trance? Or was there some other way that they perceived it? If so it was no wonder that Legolas would wish to avoid meeting other Elves.

"Things changed after Fangorn," Gimli said. "I think he was hoping that Treebeard might have some answers for him. But if so he was disappointed. He was in a black mood when we left, and that was when he started traveling with real purpose. We went to Mithlond."

Aragorn swallowed. "The Grey Havens."

Gimli nodded. "I thought it was over then. I was certain that Legolas went there to end it. Either he'd sail, I thought, or else he'd throw himself off a cliff into the bay."

He looked away, staring into the fire. "Do you know, I actually debated whether to try to stop him if it was the latter. I got to thinking that I was being selfish to try to keep him here when he was in so much pain. If I was a true friend, wouldn't I want what was best for him? Even if it meant letting him die?"

"It was as bad as that, then," Aragorn said.

"Worse," Gimli said. "You have no idea how bad it was. You've seen him. It's like he's fading into a ghost before your eyes. Blink and he'll be gone. Except that he can't fade, thanks to me. Thranduil was right. That was his last hope of escape and I stole it from him."

His voice was so bitter then that Aragorn looked at him in surprise. "You did not do this to him," he said. "Remember, Legolas returned the second time on his own. He knew what it would cost him."

"He did it for us," Gimli said. There was a pause and then he added, scarcely audible, "He did it for me."

"And none of it would have happened at all were it not for me," Aragorn said. "Do not waste time in castigating yourself, Master Dwarf. You acted to help him. I am far more deserving of punishment than you could ever be."

Gimli did not dispute this. He chewed on his pipe stem for a time in silence and then picked up the thread of his story. "Legolas spent days walking the cliffs, staring at the ships in the bay. I sat on the docks and watched him. They're a queer folk at the Havens – queer even for Elves, I mean – but they're hospitable enough, and they seemed to know to leave him alone. They waited for him to speak his mind, and on the fourth day he did. He went to Círdan and asked him for passage on a ship. Círdan refused."

Aragorn drew in a sharp breath. Gimli cocked an eye at him. "Círdan said that Legolas was not yet ready to sail. He said that . . . hang on . . ." Gimli frowned, visibly trying to remember. "Ah, I have it. He said, 'the Valar do not now call to you, young one. Greenleaf, thy promise is yet given to Middle-earth.'"

Gimli shrugged. "Do not ask me what it means. But it hit Legolas hard. He actually swayed on his feet – for a moment I thought he was going to faint. Then he collected himself – you know how he does – and bowed, and walked away without a word. The next day we left the Havens and came here."

Aragorn pushed up from his chair and began to pace, his head down and his arms folded over his chest. He stopped by the window and stood staring out into the snow-covered courtyard. The moon was full in the east and the snow reflected its light so that the plain was filled with a silvery glow, nearly as bright as day.

"And now you are here," he said. "And Legolas says that we might try again. Gimli . . . what if I cannot help him?"

"Of course you'll help him," Gimli said. "You did some good before, I know it. You'd have healed him then if he hadn't run off."

"He left because he could not take any more," Aragorn said. "And all I did was give him a little energy to help him stand against the darkness. To heal him – to really heal him -- I would have to go far deeper than that. We would have to go into the heart of the shadow, the cause of this sickness. He would have to lower every barrier to his mind and _faer_, give up all of his defenses to permit me entrance. After everything that has happened . . . how can he bear that? How can I even ask it of him?"

"He is here, isn't he?" Gimli said. "He must be willing to try."

Aragorn passed a hand over his face. "The shadow was so strong. And now, after all this time . . . even if Legolas is able to give me entrance, I do not know if I could fight that. Valar, I do not know how he has fought it this long."

"It hasn't been easy, I know that much," Gimli said. He stood and crossed the room to stand next to Aragorn. "It's been draining him, day by day. I don't know how much longer he'll be able to last."

"There has to be another way," Aragorn said. "I could let him take the energy he needs without forcing him to open to me. That would give him the strength to hold on a little longer, until we can find a better option. Perhaps in the libraries of Imladris . . ."

"Haven't you been listening?" Gimli said. "You _are_ the last option. He looked everywhere else -- he literally went to the ends of Middle-earth to find another way. There isn't one. You're his last chance. If you fail in this Legolas will die. And from what he tells me there'll be no journey to Mandos, no rebirth in Aman. As much as he might hate it, you're his last hope. After everything he's done for you, don't you dare to fail him now."

Aragorn looked at him. "And you, Gimli? After everything that I've done to him, and to you . . . do you trust me in this? Do you forgive me?"

Gimli met his gaze, small eyes dark beneath his brows. Then he looked away. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I haven't any other choice, any more than Legolas does."

He paused and then shot a glance back at Aragorn. "Heal him," he said. "Make him well, make him the way he used to be, before he ever went to Harad or crossed paths with that damned Corsair. Do that and then maybe I'll be able to forgive."

*~*~*

"You know what I'll have to do," Aragorn said.

Legolas nodded. He was standing very still at the opposite end of the study, before the window. It was the second evening after his arrival in Minas Tirith, the night after Aragorn's conversation with Gimli. Aragorn had spent the day with Arwen, who was recovering well, and with their son. He had told her of Legolas' arrival and of his offer to try again. Arwen appeared content to leave the matter in Aragorn's hands. Like Gimli, she seemed to believe with implicit faith that Aragorn could heal even the deepest of injuries, if only given the chance. Aragorn wished that he himself were so sure.

Gimli watched them from an armchair by the fire, tapping the stem of his pipe against his lips. The window was closed, but unlatched, and the door was unlocked. A kettle hung over the fire, the first wisps of steam beginning to curl from its spout. The pouch of athelas lay upon the table next to a washing bowl.

Aragorn went to pick it up, and then stopped. He thought of everything that lay ahead: of steeping the athelas, of preparing himself for the trance, and a deep weariness stole through him. He left the athelas where it lay and looked at Legolas.

"Why should I?"

Legolas looked up. "Pardon?"

"All of this," Aragorn gestured to the healing implements. "We've done it all before, and what did it gain us? A few more months of misery for you, and for me, the knowledge that I'd failed, that all my efforts to help only hurt you more . . . Why is this time any different? What guarantee have I that you won't run away again, and leave me not knowing where you are, or if you're alive, or in pain, or --" he broke off, struggling for control.

"I can make no guarantees," Legolas said. "Only you have the power to do that, Elessar."

"No," Aragorn said. "If you cannot trust me, Legolas, there is no point in any of this. I will not put you through that only to fail again. Hurt you I think I must, but I will not do it unless there is some real chance that you will be healed at the end."

Legolas turned his back. Aragorn watched the struggle in his face, reflected in the window's glass: the closing of his eyes, the catch of his teeth upon his lip. Then Legolas lifted his head.

"Gimli," he said. "Please leave us."

Aragorn blinked. Gimli choked and took his pipe from his mouth, sputtering. "_What?_ No! We agreed from the beginning – I stay with you. He –"

"Gimli," Legolas interrupted. "You can hardly trust him to heal my mind and spirit if you also feel you must stand guard over my body." He turned to look at his friend, and his eyes softened. "I will be fine. Please, elvellon."

Gimli glowered, but went. When the door had closed behind him Legolas turned to face Aragorn.

"I did not know, before, whence came the strength you gave me, or the reason for it. Dragaer told me . . . many things. Terrible things. But chief among them was that of all his attempts to control you, the one that worked was to feed the darkness that was already in your heart, the fear that dwelt there, and the desire. The desire you felt for me."

Aragorn said nothing. Legolas sighed. "There is darkness within every Man, I know, and now it seems that even Elven hearts are not immune to it. I always believed that what one chose to do outweighed the evil impulses over which one had no control – and resisting them, to my mind, showed greater strength than not feeling them at all. So I believed it was with you. But when Dragaer told me that you did not even try to resist . . ."

"I did not know," Aragorn said. "Legolas, I swear to you, I did not realize what it meant until I was so deeply sunk into Dragaer's need for power that I could see nothing else. In his mind such love as I held for you could not exist without physical lust also. I saw what it meant for Arwen and fought back in time. But I did not realize that you also were at risk until it was too late."

Legolas studied him for a moment. Then he nodded. "So you told me before, though at the time I did not heed you. I have thought about that, these past months, and it seems to me that it is possible, if the idea of physical love between us were indeed foreign to you . . ."

He trailed off. Aragorn took a breath. "That is why you asked my choice," he said. "You wanted to know which of you I held most dear, if I would place my love for you above that which I feel for Arwen."

"It did seem a pertinent question, under the circumstances," Legolas said with just a touch of his old humor.

Aragorn swallowed. "So knowing which I chose . . . what now?"

"Now we try again," Legolas said. "If you are willing."

"I am," Aragorn said. "Are you?"

Legolas looked away. "I cannot continue as I am now," he said. "Not even for a mortal's lifetime. It seems that I am not as strong as I had thought."

"You are," Aragorn said. He walked forward until he stood before Legolas, trying to catch his eyes. "Valar, Legolas, you are. I cannot ask you to forgive me. But to do this you must trust me. I cannot fight the shadow alone."

"Nor can I, it seems," Legolas said. "Aragorn . . . I will try to remember what we have said here. Despite what happened, despite what the shadow would have me believe, I will try to remember your true nature, as I knew you before. I cannot promise more than that."

Aragorn released a slow breath. "It will mean going back to the rape," he said. "You know that."

Legolas closed his eyes. For a long moment he stood silent, and then he lifted his chin. His shoulders squared. "I know," he said. He opened his eyes and the corner of his mouth curled in a wry look. "That is another reason I am here rather than in Imladris. You already know the worst of it."

Aragorn bit his lip. "Promise me one thing," he said. "We need not do it all tonight. We may do as little as you can bear, when you can bear it. If you need to leave the citadel you may. But do not go far. Please. Do not leave Minas Tirith without saying good-bye."

Legolas held his gaze. "I will not promise to remain if there is no hope."

"I do not ask you to," Aragorn said. "Only tell me before you go. Please."

Slowly Legolas nodded. "We may begin."


	55. The Road Ahead

"Though your promise count for nothing, you must keep it nonetheless."

– Leonard Cohen

Chapter 54: The Road Ahead

Aragorn approached Legolas slowly, careful to make no sudden or potentially aggressive moves. Despite Legolas' stated willingness to proceed he was visibly tense, poised on the balls of his feet, his breath growing swift and shallow as Aragorn neared him.

Aragorn stopped a few feet away. "We'll wait until you are ready," he said. "Tell me when."

Legolas shot him a look and then nodded. He closed his eyes and inhaled shakily, obviously fighting his own reactions. A minute passed, and then another. Aragorn waited, his hands at his sides, gazing into the fire so as not to add to whatever pressure Legolas might be feeling. He tried to keep his mind a blank; tried not to think of the stakes that lay in what he was about to do. He was sweating.

"All right," Legolas said at last. Aragorn looked up. The wired tension had eased somewhat from Legolas' posture and his breathing had steadied. He no longer appeared to be on the verge of flight.

"All right," Aragorn echoed. He took one step forward and then stopped. "I will need to touch you to begin. The chest is traditional for healing, but it can be anywhere for now. What would you prefer? I could touch your hand, or your shoulder –"

"We may do as before," Legolas said. He paused. "I do not think that I can lie down now."

"No need," Aragorn said softly. "Just be still. That is all. Be still."

He closed the distance until they stood face to face. Legolas held his gaze for a moment and then looked away. He nodded.

Aragorn laid one hand flat against Legolas' chest. He could feel the beat of the Elf's heart beneath his palm, the rise and fall of his breathing. He bent his head, his eyes closing as he sought the core of himself in the first step toward the healing trance.

As he became aware of the light within himself he also recognized a growing darkness without -- the shadow had become stronger, as he had feared. He could feel it: a crushing weight of pain and rage and need like an unceasing hunger, forming an icy aura around Legolas. He drew a breath, and then another, concentrating on the warmth within himself, visualizing his own life force as a burning flame in contrast with the shadow. His light seemed pitifully small against that vastness.

He needed to find the corresponding life force within Legolas, the spirit that had fought back and somehow survived for all these months. But all he could feel was the shadow.

He called out, as he had once called to Faramir, to Merry, pulling them back when they wandered in darkness. But there was no answer. Legolas was there, somewhere, but Aragorn had no way of knowing if he could hear, or if he could respond if he did.

He sank deeper into the trance, imagining the light filling him and spilling down his arm and through his hand, following it as it blazed out into the dark. The shadow surrounded him, crushing him down. He could see nothing, feel nothing but the hurt and anger and shame that were a part of it, pain made physical, impenetrably black.

Straight as an arrow he pierced it, driving to penetrate the center. At the first rush of his charge the shadow drew back, parting before him, and for an instant he glimpsed a light shining ahead. In that moment he sensed something that was not the shadow: feelings of love and grief interwoven. He breathed in a green scent, as of pine needles and rain, and heard a sound like a song suspended on a single clear note, pure and sweet and infinitely sad.

Then Legolas stepped back. Aragorn staggered as his hand slipped from Legolas' chest, breaking the connection between them. He caught the edge of his desk for support, dizzy with the shock of disorientation. The room broke and spun around him. He closed his eyes, breathing hard as he fought not to faint.

Slowly the world steadied. Aragorn opened his eyes.

Legolas had backed against the window, panting. Sweat gleamed on his upper lip.

"No more," he gasped. "Aragorn, please, no more."

Aragorn felt like cursing: he had been so close! He had seen through the shadow, he knew it; if he could just have a little more time . . .

"All right," he managed. "All right. We'll leave it for now."

*~*~*

Aragorn cleared his schedule for the week. He told his councilors that he would be available for one hour each morning, and apart from that time he was not to be disturbed for anything short of imminent invasion or plague. The Council was capable of managing the day-to-day business of the Kingdom, and Faramir was due to return from overseeing the Corsair rehabilitation in Umbar, so they agreed to this readily enough.

The common belief was that the King simply wanted the time to spend with his new son in the days before the Prince was officially announced to the people. In the main part this was true. Aragorn spent most of his new free time in the nursery, learning with Arwen the joys of feeding, rocking and bathing an infant, and even burping him and changing his clout, much to the dismay of the attendant nurse. His son was a remarkably placid baby – a reflection of his Elven heritage, Aragorn thought – but even when he cried his wails were a welcome sound to his father's ears. Aragorn still could not quite believe that this miracle had come from him, though the baby's grey eyes and the rounded cast of his slightly pointed ears allowed no other conclusion.

But Aragorn gave orders that Legolas was to be given free access throughout the citadel and the Royal Chambers, and when word came that the Elf was ready for him he would leave whatever he was doing at the moment and go without hesitation. Arwen watched this in silence, and what she thought of the matter she did not share with Aragorn.

They met twice on the second day. The first time, in mid-morning as the snow was beginning to fall outside the study windows, Aragorn had barely reached the first stage of the trance before Legolas called a halt. But he returned again only eight hours later, appearing silently in the doorway as Aragorn sat at his desk, and this time he lasted nearly twenty minutes before he broke away.

Anxious for any hint of improvement, Aragorn took this growing endurance as a good sign. There was no question in his mind that it was a test of endurance for Legolas. Slowly he was improving, his conscious will gaining increasing control over his physical reactions. But he could not quite repress the shudder that ran through him each time Aragorn touched him, nor halt the quickening of his breath, the tension that locked his muscles as he held himself still before Aragorn's approach.

Aragorn hated it. He hated seeing the fear in Legolas' eyes, quickly masked when he looked at him. He hated each step that brought them closer to the ultimate invasion of Legolas' mind and memories and the pain that was to come. Most of all he hated watching his closest friend have to force himself merely to remain in the same room with him.

He wished desperately that there were another way. Any other way than this, that he must hurt him yet again. But he knew, as Legolas knew, that there was not.

*~*~*

Darkness surrounded him, bearing him down, scoring icy claws deep within him. He could not see. The weight was crushing him, freezing his lungs so that he could not breathe. He tried to summon the light within himself, the flame that would hold back the shadow. There was nothing there. There was nothing there! He searched frantically, the panic rising, but where there should have been light and warmth there was only darkness. He cried out in despair, but the shadow ran tendrils down his throat, killing the words unspoken. There was no one to hear in any case. He was alone and weak, too weak to fight. The shadow pierced his heart at last, and he was so cold, alone and dying in the dark.

Aragorn bolted awake, clawing at his chest. His heart was cold, so cold: he could feel the coldness within him, the darkness consuming him – he stopped. His hand pressed to his chest and he felt the racing beat within. Automatically he checked the pulse at his neck. His skin was chilled with sweat.

Arwen stirred sleepily beside him. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Aragorn said. "It was just a dream. Go back to sleep."

He waited while the pounding of his heart subsided and Arwen's breathing slowed again. Then he slipped out of bed and padded silently to the bedroom door. The stone flags were cold beneath his bare feet as he crossed the entranceway to his study.

The study's hearth was empty and the lamps dark, but the room was eerily illuminated by the moonlight that fell through the window in diamond patterns across the desk and floor. Aragorn crossed to the window and opened it, leaning out to breathe in deep draughts of the icy air. The night was clear and the stars arched in their multitudes hard and bright across the heavens.

Aragorn shivered, folding his arms over his chest, but he could not look away. The dream had left him unsettled, ill at ease. It had seemed so real. Even now his heart was cold with a chill that had nothing to do with the winter night. The thought came to him with sudden clarity: this shadow had drained an immortal life and nearly killed an Elven soul. What would it do to a mortal?

_It does not matter_, he thought. But he could not shake the memory of the darkness filling him, of being so alone, so empty and afraid. Even now he was afraid.

Something moved in the snowy courtyard below. Aragorn frowned, straining to see. A figure was crossing the empty grounds, silhouetted dark against the snow, and as it passed from the shadow of the citadel out into the moonlight Aragorn caught a glimpse of white-blond hair.

His boots were in the entranceway next to the door. He yanked them on over his bare feet. Catching up his cloak from its hook he dashed out into the corridor. It was deep night in the citadel, and Aragorn met no one as he hurried through the empty passageways and down the echoing flights of marble stairs to the main entrance.

The guards at the great doors jumped to startled attention as he passed, but he paid them little heed. He halted on the citadel steps, his breath billowing white as he scanned the empty grounds. It had snowed that day and the courtyard stretched like a flawless carpet under the moonlight, with scarcely a print to mar its surface.

There were no tracks, but as Aragorn strained his eyes he saw a figure move in the distance. The smooth plain stretched along the top of the spar that thrust out from Mt. Mindolluin like a vast ship's prow rising high above the city, and at the farthest point where the courtyard walls came together in twin posts above the sheer seven hundred foot drop, there stood a figure upon the brink.

Aragorn's heart missed a beat. For an instant it seemed as though his legs would give way beneath him, his vision tunneling as his breath stopped, and then he was moving, running down the steps and out into the courtyard. The snow lay six inches deep and a thin crust of ice was frozen over its surface. It broke beneath his boots, crunching with every step as he sank into the powder beneath. He floundered, struggling in great awkward strides through the snow, his heart pounding and the freezing air burning in his lungs.

He was too slow. He was too slow, useless, helpless, _mortal_ – long forgotten memories rose in his mind, images of playmates dashing away as he struggled behind – and the age-old feelings of inadequacy and frustration surged within him. But this time it was not him who would suffer because of his failings, and close behind came fury at himself because he was too slow, too heavy, too late to catch Legolas before he jumped.

But Legolas did not jump. Aragorn was more than halfway to him, the stitch in his side like a spike beneath his ribs, and still Legolas stood motionless upon the pillar. Aragorn reached the wall, panting, and saw Legolas turn his head to look at him. Then the Elf looked away again, back over the sweep of the darkened city.

The wall was waist high to Aragorn and crowned with several inches of snow. The pillar on which Legolas stood was nearly head height and, Aragorn saw with a sinking feeling, equally deep with snow under a thin sheen of ice. He fought back the urge to physically pull the Elf down and tried to speak quietly. "What are you doing?"

"Listening."

Aragorn blinked. The city was silent to his ears: the taverns and shops had long since shuttered and the cold kept even Minas Tirith's criminal classes close to home this night. Somewhere in the distance he heard a dog bark. The sound fell flat, muffled by the snow, and soon stopped.

"Listening for what?" he said. Then he looked up and saw the intentness of Legolas' face. He sighed. "Legolas, not even you could hear the sea from here. It is impossible."

Legolas did not answer for a moment, and when at last he spoke his voice was soft. "No," he said. "I do not hear the sea."

A gust of wind rattled the branches of the saplings planted along the courtyard wall and tugged at their cloaks. Legolas shifted his position to keep balance against it. As he did so his foot dislodged a chunk of snow from the pillar's top and sent it plummeting out into space.

Aragorn's heart seemed to stop, then start again, hammering wildly. "Legolas," he said as calmly as he could, "come down from there."

To his surprise the Elf obeyed, turning and jumping easily down to land with a light crunch upon the snow a few feet from him.

Aragorn blinked. "Thank you," he said.

Legolas said nothing. He stood silent, his eyes downcast, as though waiting for something.

Aragorn licked his lips. Something was very wrong here. He could feel the silence come down like a wall between them, so that those few feet of distance that separated him from Legolas might as well have been miles. If only he knew what to say, what to do to reach him . . .

"I have lived under the shadow before," he began hesitantly. "All those months . . . the darkness, the despair when it seemed that all hope was lost. I know what you are going through."

Legolas looked up. Their eyes met.

"You brought me through that," Aragorn said. "You saved me. You saved us all." He swallowed. "The price you paid . . . Eru, Legolas, I do not say that it was worth it. I cannot say that. But I am here, now, and hope is _not _lost. I will help you through this, if you will let me."

Legolas held his gaze. His eyes were dark, smoldering with some emotion. A muscle flexed in his jaw. "It is the _delgurth_, Aragorn," he said at last. "The horror-death. What can you possibly do against that?"

"Fight it," Aragorn said. "As you have fought it. This shadow cannot stand. Together, Legolas, we will defeat it."

He tried to sound certain, but the memory of the dream was vivid in his mind: the cold, the emptiness and fear that made lies of his brave words. Legolas tilted his head a little to one side, casting a long look at Aragorn.

"You are not so naïve as that," he said.

"No," Aragorn said. "I do not pretend it will be easy. Valar, Legolas, I know what is coming."

Legolas made a sound of disbelief. "I doubt it."

"I know what it is to live in darkness," Aragorn said softly. He laid a hand on Legolas' arm. "I know how hard it is to trust, when all light is gone."

Legolas jerked back. "You know _nothing._ Do you imagine that this shadow is anything like what you experienced? Dragaer did but show you the darkness in your own mind. He did not force you –"

He broke off, visibly struggling for control. "It is consuming me," he said. "The sea does not call to me. Even Arda's song is almost gone. I should have died that night – in all the ways that matter I _did _die that night. No true child of the Eldar could have suffered it and lived."

"Is that what this is about?" Aragorn said. He swept his arm in a gesture that took in the expanse of the city far below. "Is that why you came out here tonight? To die?"

Legolas turned away. Aragorn took a step and caught him by the shoulder, pulling him around to face him. "Answer me! You said you should have died. Does that mean that you want to die?"

"It does not matter what I want!" Legolas said. "I cannot fade, not completely, but neither can I live."

"I don't believe that," Aragorn said. "I have seen the shadow, Legolas, but I have also seen the light in you, the power that has held it back. Look at me!" He shook Legolas by the shoulders. "You can beat this thing, Legolas. I can give you the strength. You only need the will."

Legolas turned his face aside. "I have tried, Aragorn. All these months . . . and now I am nearly gone. Even if you could, there is nothing left for you to save."

"If that is true then why did you come to Minas Tirith?" Aragorn demanded. "Why did you ask my help? Why did you try so hard to find healing, these past two days?"

"Because I was afraid!" Legolas cried. "Elbereth, Aragorn, can you not understand that? All this time I have felt the darkness creeping inside of me, changing me, and I cannot stop it. It is taking me. I have thought things, felt things that no Elf should feel – that no Elf _could _feel. I am no Elf, not anymore. It is no wonder that the Valar have rejected me. I am a monster, and I am so afraid."

His voice broke on the last word and he turned away, shaking. Without thinking Aragorn pulled him into a hug. He felt Legolas stiffen, and quickly relaxed his hold, but the Elf did not draw away.

"All these months you have fought," Aragorn whispered. "You are _still _fighting. I've seen it. I've felt it. It may be the horror-death, Legolas, but you are not dead and this shadow will not take you. I swear that it will not."

Legolas drew a shuddering breath, and then Aragorn felt him nod. He pulled back a little to look at him. Legolas' eyes were rimmed with red and his face was drawn, but the frightening pallor had gone from his cheeks.

Aragorn studied him a moment and then the corner of his mouth quirked. "So you are no Elf," he muttered. "You fool. Look at you."

Legolas' brows drew together in a puzzled frown, and then he followed Aragorn's gaze down to the ground. The snow was trampled beneath Aragorn's feet where he had sunk through the crust, but remained firm as a solid floor beneath Legolas'. Though they were of a height, Legolas now stood three inches taller than Aragorn as they faced each other.

Legolas raised his eyes to meet Aragorn's gaze. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Aragorn grinned. A few seconds later Legolas' mouth curved faintly in return.

"Daft Elf," Aragorn murmured, and moved as if to ruffle Legolas' hair. Legolas dodged his hand and swatted Aragorn in return. The movement was so unexpected that it caught Aragorn completely off guard. Forgetting to block or duck at all, he simply stood there open-mouthed, rubbing his head where Legolas had struck him and staring at the Elf in delighted astonishment.

Legolas looked almost as surprised as Aragorn. For a moment they stared at each other, and then Aragorn laughed. Legolas smiled: the first true smile that Aragorn had seen from him in almost a year.

He moved to hug the Elf, but Legolas stopped him. He looked into Aragorn's eyes, and slowly Aragorn's smile faded.

"I will not let it take you," he said. "I swear to you, Legolas, I will save you."

Legolas bent his head. "All those months I looked for another way," he said. "I tried to spare you this – to spare us both." He closed his eyes. "You say I am no monster. But if I give you to the shadow to save myself, what does that make me?"

Aragorn reached up, cupping the back of Legolas' head. In wonder he felt Legolas return the gesture, bringing their foreheads gently together in the age-old gesture of Elven friendship, the contact that he had feared lost forever. He closed his eyes against the prick of tears.

"A friend, Legolas," he whispered. "It makes you a friend and a warrior who can turn to his brothers for aid. That is all. A friend."

Legolas drew a shaking breath, and his hand tightened at the back of Aragorn's neck. Long minutes passed as they stood there in snow, leaning against each other, under the stars.

*~*~*

Legolas did not return to the Royal Chambers that day or the next. On the fourth day after their arrival in Minas Tirith Gimli sought Aragorn out.

"He's in the training room," the Dwarf explained as he led Aragorn out the citadel doors. "At first I thought that it was just because the archery field was closed. But . . . well, you can see for yourself."

The training arena was a long, low building set near the stables. It consisted of a single vast room partitioned by wooden hurdles into separate areas for fencing, hand-to-hand combat, strength training, wrestling and boxing. It was used by Gondor's soldiers and men-at-arms when the weather prevented them from training outside. Large windows let in the winter sunlight, reducing the need for lamps or torches and their accompanying smoke. A balcony ran around the entire circumference of the room, offering a position for spectators to observe the action without getting in the way.

They went up to the balcony. The huge room was sparsely populated this morning: a group of men-at-arms were lifting weights in the north-west corner and two squires were sparring in the open area that ran down the center, the clash of their swords echoing off the bare wooden walls.

Gimli led Aragorn around to the far side, to a section that overlooked the boxing area. A series of practice dummies were arranged in a line, each fixed solidly to the floor and sectioned within a large ring of wooden trestles. Each dummy consisted of a wooden post about the size of a man, heavily padded and covered by a tanned cow-hide.

Legolas was in the circle nearest to the wall. Aragorn heard the swish of steel slicing through air as they approached. Looking over the balcony rail he saw the flash of knives: Legolas was fighting a battle-dance, whirling so swiftly that his movements were blurred.

Aragorn had seen this form of Elven practice before: it was an exercise in speed and precision, the goal being to disorient and overwhelm the enemy rather than to overpower it by force. The Avari were masters of the form, and warriors competed to see who could come closest and with the greatest speed to the target without ever actually touching it. One of the Mirkwood escort had given a demonstration for them in Rivendell, using a young maple tree as a target. In three minutes his knives had stripped the sapling of its autumn leaves, yet not a single twig was so much as notched.

But watching Legolas now, Aragorn saw that something was wrong. The Elf was clad in a thin black undertunic and leggings, his hair tied back from his face, and during the brief pauses in the onslaught Aragorn saw the intentness of his expression, the fierceness of his control. But that control was slipping. The practice dummy at the center of the ring was scored by hundreds of shallow cuts where the knives had glanced across its surface.

"He's been at it for over an hour," Gimli said. "Going faster and faster. I told him to stop but he didn't hear me. You'd be mad to go down there now – get in front of one of those knives and I think he'd slice your head off before he even realized it. He wouldn't be able to stop himself."

"I'm not planning to go down there," Aragorn said.

The knives whirled, spinning dervishes flashing broken shards of light. Legolas spun in turn, leaping high one moment to slice across the top of the target, diving low the next and changing directions in mid-dive so swiftly that Aragorn hardly saw it. His breath was growing louder, ragged with effort. Faster he went, faster, careening to the bare edge of control.

And past it. A backward stroke behind Legolas' head struck the dummy with full force. The razor-sharp blade drove straight through the padding and plunged deep into the wood beneath. Legolas staggered with the shock of lost momentum, almost falling. The other knife slipped from his hand and skidded across the polished floor.

Gimli uttered an oath and started for the stairs. Aragorn caught him by the shoulder. "Wait."

Legolas straightened, panting. His shirt clung to his chest and his hair was streaked with sweat. Belatedly Aragorn saw that he had discarded his vambraces. His wrists were still bandaged.

With an effort Legolas wrenched the first knife free. He stood silent, studying it as he turned it over in his hand.

"Aragorn . . ." Gimli said in a warning tone.

"Just wait," Aragorn said. He held his breath.

For a heartbeat longer Legolas stood as though transfixed, and then in a savage motion he threw the knife from him. As it clattered to the floor he struck, whirling around and kicking the dummy so hard that it shuddered on its base. With feet and fists he attacked it, and there was no grace in his movements now, just the raw brute strength of rage.

The Men had stopped their talk; the squires' swords were still. In all the vast room the only sound was Legolas' breathing. It sounded loud and harsh in the silence, tearing sobs that wracked the Elf's frame. Tears streaked his cheeks as the punches came more and more wildly, bare knuckles stripped raw so that flecks of blood daubed the leather with every blow.

"Mahal save us," Gimli breathed. Aragorn said nothing. He was gripping the balcony railing so hard that his hands were white.

The end came quickly: a final blow and Legolas collapsed, sliding down to the floor with his back to the dummy and his legs drawn up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face, his whole body shaking.

Aragorn and Gimli stood silent. Finally Gimli stepped back and dashed a hand across his face.

"I guess it's finally caught up to him," he said. "Everything he's been through. He can't run any longer."

"No," Aragorn said. "He can't." He looked down over the rail and pity welled in his chest, compassion and sympathy such that his heart ached.

"It would be enough to break anyone, what's been done to him," Gimli said.

"This is not a reaction to what happened before."

Gimli turned to look at him, frowning. Aragorn did not take his eyes from Legolas. He swallowed past the constriction of his throat.

"It is because of what is yet to come."


	56. In Memory

"The past is never dead, it is not even past."

– William Faulkner

Chapter 55: In Memory

The sentry bowed, holding open the door to the Royal Chambers. Legolas wished that he would not. It should not be so easy, this entrance, these last few steps on the long road that had led him here. The citadel guards should stand to block him with swords drawn. Did they not know; could they not see the fate he brought for their King? But Aragorn had commanded them to give him passage.

He crossed into the antechamber. The doors to the bedroom and the Queen's study were closed: Arwen had gone to the nursery. Legolas had made sure of this, as he always made sure that the Evenstar had departed ere he came to her husband. He could hold no longer against the shadow: he could not prevent what was coming, not even for Aragorn. Not anymore. But for Arwen's sake he could at least ensure that she did not have to witness it. He was at least still strong enough for that.

Gimli too was not there. That was as much due to selfishness on Legolas' part as it was to spare the Dwarf. Even after all that had passed between them, and everything that Gimli had done for him, still Legolas could not bear the thought of another there, watching.

Gimli had accepted this with a surprising amount of grace, studying him with such compassion in his deep-set eyes that Legolas had to look away. But Gimli seemed willing to leave the matter with Aragorn. Since his wound had ceased to pain him Gimli had developed a supreme confidence in the Man's healing powers – or at least he pretended so, steadfastly refusing to contemplate what would happen if Aragorn failed.

Legolas shared that habit. But he went further than Gimli, being equally reluctant to think about what would happen when Aragorn succeeded.

The door to the King's study was ajar. A light shone within: Aragorn was working at his desk. Legolas stepped to the side so that he could look through the opening to where the Man sat, his head bent over the sheet of parchment before him. The room was quiet but for the scratch of Aragorn's quill and the crackle of the fire. The lamp at Aragorn's elbow cast a warm glow over the scene, limning the edge of his face with gold.

Legolas studied him. The past eight months had been kind to the King. The circles had faded from under his eyes and he had filled out again: the once-constant weight of tension and suspicion had lifted from him. The harsh lines were gone from his face, leaving only an extra crease at the corners of his eyes and mouth to mark their passage. The hair that curved past his cheek and down to his shoulders had a bit more grey, as did his beard. He looked again the strong and noble King of Men, a scion of Númenor, but it was a strength tinged more overtly now with wisdom, nobility coupled with regret.

The quill's scratching stopped. Aragorn looked up, directly into Legolas' eyes. Legolas started – he had not meant to stare so long. Of course a Dúnedan would sense an Elf's gaze; and all the more so would this Dúnedan, this Elf.

Aragorn set the quill in its stand, still holding Legolas' gaze. Slowly he got to his feet, his hand braced against the desk as though for support. Legolas stood rooted to the spot. Need had driven him this far, but he could go no further. He felt a strong impulse to flee, but his feet refused to move. Aragorn's eyes held him: he could not break away.

Aragorn said nothing. He made no demands, gave no order. But as they looked at each other Aragorn made a tiny, involuntary motion with his hand. Probably he himself was unaware of it. Certainly none but an Elf would have seen it. But Legolas did see it, as he had been waiting for it, and it was enough.

He felt the icy weight of the shadow settle more deeply in his chest. And bowing his head, he dragged one leaden foot after the other across the entranceway and into the study and closed the door behind him.

Aragorn was already crossing the room to the fireplace as he entered. Legolas watched, his arms folded tightly around himself, as the Man lifted the kettle down from its hook above the fire and poured it into the bowl kept ready on the table.

When Aragorn reached for the drawstring pouch Legolas turned his back, swallowing hard. He kept his eyes fixed on the window, staring unseeingly at the snow-covered grounds while behind him he heard the slide of the knot coming undone and the rustle of dried leaves.

He did not need to see Aragorn shake the athelas leaves out onto the surface of the water. He knew by the growing freshness of the air, the scent like the coming of dawn on a spring night. The shadow's weight eased ever so slightly, bitter claws loosening their grip just enough so that he could turn and face the Man.

Aragorn set the athelas pouch down and walked around the table until only a few feet of carpet separated them. There he stopped and stood silent, waiting. Legolas knew that he would do no more. He would not initiate what was to come.

Legolas knew his reasons. But that did not lessen his confusion as, paradoxically, he was both grateful for Aragorn's restraint and at the same time furious at him for forcing the choice upon him. And it did not make what he had to do any easier.

He took a deep breath, centering himself as best as he could. Then he walked forward until he stood before the King. He met Aragorn's eyes briefly and then looked away.

The hand that Aragorn placed upon his chest was warm. Legolas closed his eyes as the warmth stole through him, the tension easing as long-knotted muscles relaxed. He heard Aragorn breathe in and a flare of panic shot through him – _Aragorn's breath was hot against his skin, panting as he tore open the lacings of Legolas' clothes and pushed his hands beneath – _Legolas shoved the memory down, trembling.

He would not think of that. Aragorn was only initiating the healing trance. He would not think of that.

But as the trance began he felt Aragorn reaching out to him, energy and strength flowing into him, and with that strength came also the intention to find him, the searching light that would reach into his core and pierce the darkness there, and he knew that he would not be able to avoid remembering much longer.

He could not face that. In confusion and in shame he retreated, and as he withdrew the shadow closed over him, blocking out Aragorn's light. Safe in the darkness of his own mind Legolas swore silently: it was going to be like all the other times. The pain of the waking world was enough to drive him to Aragorn, but it was not enough to make him take the final step. Even the horror-death was not enough to do that.

But this time something was different. The shadow that closed upon him was not complete. A crack was growing in the darkness. Tiny at first, insignificant – but it lengthened, grew wide, and the shadow split before it. White light spilled in as if through the opening of a door, growing brighter and brighter, blindingly bright.

Legolas stared. Then, realizing what it meant, he threw himself back – but too late. A figure was silhouetted against the light, coming toward him, and there was nowhere left to hide.

A Man stepped from the light into his mind, and the Man _was _the light, and the light was healing, and strength, and love . . . and the light was Aragorn.

Legolas turned to flee, but the light was _everywhere, _filling his mind, and every buried image and sensation was stark in its glare, every razor edge shining, preserved in perfect Elven memory. _Screaming, someone was screaming and the ropes bit into his wrists and the palantír was burning, burning against his naked skin and Aragorn would see –_

Legolas recoiled, but the memories were all around him, assaulting him from every side, and there was nowhere to run. _A rough hand clamped over his nose and mouth, tasting of dirt and salt and sweat. Strange vapor flooded his lungs and his limbs were growing heavy, his muscles weak –_

He staggered, raising his arms in a futile effort to shield himself from the horrors of his own mind, and then Aragorn caught him.

"All right, easy now, easy, I've got you . . ." Strong arms were holding him, supporting him as the tempest raged around them. Buffeted by the conflicting winds of sense memory, every nerve stripped raw by the onslaught of taste and touch and sound and pain, Legolas gripped Aragorn's arm as he would a strong tree branch in a gale, braced his feet and held on.

"Shh . . . it's all right . . ." Little by little the flood of images and sensations lessened. The screaming died away, still audible but distant, like the howling of a storm outside Mirkwood's stronghold.

Legolas raised his head.

"Better?" Aragorn said.

Slowly Legolas nodded. The images were still there, visible all around them: ugly, brutal scenes from the Corsair ship, Elessar's tent, but they were somehow less real, less immediate – like paintings upon a wall. He saw himself bound on Dragaer's bed and flinched in anticipation, but the sting of the ropes did not burn his wrists, and his throat was not raw with thirst and the taste of blood.

"What did you do?"

"These are memories as mortals have them," Aragorn said. His voice was strained. He paused a moment, breathing hard, and then continued. "Events of one's life are preserved like books upon a shelf, so that one may look at them and recall where and when something happened, but one cannot step into them and live them again. Mortal sense memory is very poor, you see. A smell, a taste might pull a memory from the shelf and open it, but nothing more. The immediate sensations are lost. Sometimes the memory itself is forgotten."

"And you live like this?" Legolas looked around in wonder.

"Most of us, yes," Aragorn said. "It is as Ilúvatar decreed for us. Some might say it is His gift to us."

Legolas turned his head sharply. Their eyes met.

"Men are frail compared to the Eldar," Aragorn said. "So many things will fell us more easily: injury, sickness, hunger, cold . . . and if those do not kill us then time itself eventually will. But in one thing at least we are stronger. We can escape the worst of life's pain without retreating into death. We can forget."

"Forget . . ." Legolas swallowed. "What have you done?"

"Heartbreak, betrayal, violation of trust . . . violation of body," Aragorn's voice dropped to a whisper. "I can make them only pictures, Legolas. I can make them memories upon which the shadow cannot feed. I can make it so that you can heal."

The flow of images around them was slowing. What had been an assault of random snatches of different scenes – the trickle of water into a glass, a cloth soaked in liquid, the press of one mouth upon another – was now drawing together into a coherent order. As though watching a tapestry come to life Legolas saw himself holding Arwen close in the King's study, saw Elessar come upon them, and watched himself draw knives upon his friend. But though he remembered the weight and warmth of Arwen in his arms, he did not feel her. And though he still felt a flush of shame at the sight of his blades held against the King, it was distant, tempered by the knowledge that he had acted in defense.

The scene faded, replaced by an image of him and Elessar upon the practice field. The swordfight. Legolas saw himself fall, saw Elessar kneel to brush the hair from his face – and Aragorn inhaled sharply. Legolas turned to look at him, frowning. Aragorn caught his gaze and smiled weakly.

"It is nothing. I have my own memories of that time, that is all."

The scene shifted again, to the tower. Legolas watched himself catch Elessar's wrist with his sword half-drawn from its scabbard. He watched as Faramir knelt, as the King moved toward him, as he in turn circled to confront Elessar. The King grasped the back of his neck, pulling their heads together. Aragorn gasped again.

"Eru, you were my friend. _ Elvellon _. . ."

"You can feel it," Legolas said. "What I felt. The sense memory. You're taking it!"

"I am mortal, Legolas. I'll live it once, and it will be stored in my mind as a mortal memory, safe. The shadow cannot reach it there. It will have no further power over you or me."

"Will you bet your life on that?"

Aragorn caught his eye and grinned. "Oh yes," he said.

Then his body convulsed and he cried out, falling to his knees. Legolas dropped to the floor beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Aragorn rocked back and forth, pressing his hands to the sides of his head. "The sea," he groaned. "Oh Elbereth, the sea!"

Legolas looked up. The scene above them had changed to the bay of Dol Amroth. The surf pounded the rocky spit on which he stood, washing over his feet. The wind whipped wet hair across his face.

"Stop it," he said. "Aragorn, stop it! Stop it now!"

"It's all right," Aragorn gasped. "I just didn't expect – how could I? No Man has felt it before. But it's all right. It's almost over."

But it was not just the impact that the Sindarin sea-longing would have on a mortal heart that worried Legolas. The scene above did not show it, because at the time he had had no knowledge of it, but Elessar was coming. Any moment now he would feel the Man's blow across his face, pulling him awake, and then –

Aragorn shuddered, touching his hand to his mouth, and then grew still. Legolas kept his eyes averted from the images that showed above them, but he knew perfectly well what they were. All the time that had passed since then, all the things that had happened, and he still had not been able to scrub the memory of that first kiss from his skin.

But it was fading now, fading as Aragorn took it into his own mind along with the other feelings and sensations that had been burned into Legolas' nerve endings. He could feel the darkness lifting, the shadow's grip weakening with each sense memory removed. The images, the knowledge of what had happened remained to him, but without the power to drag him back into re-living their horrors. He could look on them or not, as he chose.

Aragorn raised his head. "Legolas, I . . ."

"Shh," Legolas said. "It is over, now. Let it be over."

Some of the images that had surrounded them were slipping away: the encounter with Arwen; the sword match; the tower; the sea. In their place a soft light was growing, stealing through the hidden recesses that had for so long been locked in darkness. Legolas felt it as a healing balm upon wounds both mental and physical: acceptance, and strength given freely, and love.

Then Aragorn stiffened. A new scene was coming into focus, and looking up Legolas saw a night lit by a field of torches and cooking fires. Dun-coloured tents bulked between their flicking lights, and in the distance rose the dark outline of hills, solid black against the star-strewn sky. Harad. The perspective was narrowing upon one tent, larger than the others, with guards at the door and the royal standard flying from each of its four corners.

"No," Legolas said.

"I'm sorry," Aragorn said. "We must."

But Legolas was breathing hard, his heart pounding. It was not just the confrontation with Elessar. Everything that came after – the flight across the desert, the capture, Dragaer – Aragorn would see it all. He would feel everything, every moment as Legolas had felt it – _exactly _as Legolas had felt it. Ilúvatar's gift would not spare him from the breaking of an Elven soul.

"_No!_" Legolas scrambled backward, pushing Aragorn away. "Get out! _Get out of my mind!_"

A long split ran down the center of the tent's image. In the next instant it shattered, exploding outward as the world fractured around them. Legolas was falling, falling through the shards into the shadow . . .

He landed hard upon his hands and knees in Aragorn's study. Pushing the hair back from his face, he saw Aragorn sprawled across the floor a short distance away. The Man's face was ashen, his eyes closed.

"Aragorn?"

Aragorn did not move. He wasn't breathing. Legolas got to his feet, his heart hammering.

"Aragorn? . . . Estel?"

Before he reached him Aragorn groaned and rolled onto his side. "Ohhh . . ." he passed a hand over his face. "Sudden rupture of the healing trance. That's a killer."

He dragged himself up, grasping the edge of the desk for support. "Warn me before you do that next time, would you?"

"You are not well," Legolas said.

"I'm fine." Aragorn took a step forward, swayed and grabbed the desk again. "Just give me a minute."

"No." Legolas backed away. "No more. This is over."

"Legolas, it's the only way. Those sense memories are poison. They're feeding the shadow, and they're killing you. You must let me take them from you."

"And let them kill you instead?"

Aragorn shook his head, then winced and pressed a hand to his temple. "They won't. I told you. Mortal memory –"

"Aragorn, look at you!" Legolas strode forward and grasped the Man's wrist. "You're sweating, but your skin is cold. You can hardly stand. Your heart is going so fast . . ."

He trailed into silence. Aragorn was staring at him, and then slowly the Man began to smile. "And look at you, Legolas. Look."

Legolas blinked. He looked down to where he still clasped Aragorn's wrist. Then releasing Aragorn's arm he raised his hand up before his eyes. For a long moment he simply stared, forgetting to breathe. There was a roaring sound in his ears.

Very faintly, almost unnoticeable in the dim lamplight, a glow was shining beneath his skin. It was something he had taken for granted all his life, until it was lost. It was the stuff of legend, of myth, of Dwarven mockery and Human wonder. It was the light of an Elven _faer_, the strength of spirit that shone so brightly that it was visible even to mortal eyes.

Legolas raised his eyes to meet Aragorn's gaze. "You did this," he whispered. "You shielded me while you lived those memories, and all the while you were giving your life energy to me. It isn't just the shadow that is killing you. It's me."

"Oh, we mortals are stronger than you think," Aragorn said. "You'll have to try a bit harder than that to get rid of me."

Legolas took a step back. "No."

"Legolas," Aragorn said, and the lightness was gone from his voice. "I might survive it. I don't know, but I have a chance. You haven't."

"There is no chance," Legolas said. "You're still thinking in human terms of – of rape. You can't imagine what it truly was, what it is still inside my mind. The _delgurth_. It will destroy you."

"Then that is my decision to make," Aragorn said.

"No," Legolas said. "It is not."

"Legolas, wait!" Aragorn started after him, staggered and caught himself on the back of an armchair. "All right," he said. "All right, I grant that I am . . . not at my best at the moment. I just need some rest, that's all, before we finish it. We can let it go for tonight. Tomorrow we can try again."

Legolas reached for the door.

"Legolas." Aragorn spoke with the voice of the King, a tone of command.

Legolas hesitated, his fingers on the door handle, and then turned. Aragorn had let go of the chair. He stood tall; his head held high and his grey eyes clear, every inch the heir of Númenor and the rightful King of Men.

"Return here at ten o'clock tomorrow morning," he said.

Legolas swallowed. "My lord, I –"

"Promise me," Aragorn said. "Swear to me now that you will return here tomorrow morning."

A dull weight seemed to settle into Legolas' stomach. He found that he could not quite look at the King.

"I swear," he whispered.

Then groping behind him he found the handle and pulled open the door. He fled, and Aragorn let him go.


	57. The Darkest Hour

**Warning:** This is another intense chapter, and it gets the last warning of the story. It is the most graphic of all, and rape, while still NOT explicit, is shown in more detail than before.

"And say my glory was I had such friends."

– William Butler Yeats

Chapter 56: The Darkest Hour 

"Don't go," Arwen said.

Aragorn paused at the nursery door to look back at her. "I won't be long."

"You needn't go at all," Arwen laid the sleeping baby in his bassinette and stood to face him. "Stay here with us."

Aragorn frowned. "Legolas promised to return at ten o'clock, but knowing him he'll turn around and leave again just as quickly if I'm not there to meet him. He'd have fulfilled the letter of his word, you see."

"But if he does not want it then why must you force him?" Arwen said.

Aragorn sighed. Closing the distance between them he took her hand. "He needs me," he said. "We are so close to defeating this shadow, but if I let him go now he will weaken again, and we will not have another chance. I have to finish it."

"But at what cost?" Arwen whispered. "Already it's taken so much of you." She reached up to touch his face, trailing her fingers over the grayish tinge of his skin, the circles under his eyes. "We need you also, your son and I. Do we not get a say in this?"

"It is for you that I must go," Aragorn said. "Arwen, I am only a Man, but in this past year I have caused as much suffering as one of Morgoth's creations. I deserve death for what I've done. No –" he said, as she made to protest, "I do. You know that I do. But if I am to die then I would have it be in the manner of my choosing. I would undo some of the harm that I've caused. I would have my son remember me in honor."

Arwen's chin trembled, and she pressed her lips together for a moment before she spoke. "I've only just had you back. I cannot bear to lose you again." Her voice shook. "Aragorn, please listen to me. Don't go. Please."

"You agreed to help him."

"I did not agree to give my husband's life for him!" Arwen regretted the words as soon as she had spoken. Her cheeks flushed and she looked away. It was not that she did not appreciate all that Legolas had done for them, she thought. She wanted him to be healed. Of course she did. If she could give her own strength in payment for her role in bringing him to this then she would. But that was not asked of her. Instead she was expected to stand back and watch while the man she loved was drained death before her eyes, and that was too much to ask.

When she looked back Aragorn was watching her, and in his eyes was such compassion that her heart ached. He held her gaze, and then slowly he shook his head. "I must go," he said. "I am sorry."

He kissed her, and bending over the bassinette he brushed a hand over his son's head. Then he straightened and walked swiftly to the door. He did not look back.

*~*~*

Legolas arrived as the clock struck ten. He slipped through the open door as silently as ever, so that were it not for the change in the air currents of the room and the feel of an Elf's gaze upon him Aragorn might never have known he was there.

He rose from his chair to welcome him. "Thank you for coming," he said, more for the sake of saying something than anything else. He was not proud of the method by which he had extracted the promise from Legolas to return, but at least it had worked. What that said about him and Legolas and the relationship between them now was not something that he wanted to contemplate.

Legolas said nothing. That was fair, Aragorn thought: he had been brought here against his will, and it would be an insult to pretend otherwise. He swallowed.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way. But it will get better. You'll see. Once it's over, things will be better." He was talking simply to fill the silence between them, hardly aware of his own words. He picked up the drawstring pouch, which was still open from the previous night's session. Only a few dried athelas leaves remained in it.

He was leaning over to shake them into the water bowl when Legolas' hand closed upon his wrist, stopping him. Aragorn started: he had not heard the Elf move.

"That will not help," Legolas said.

Aragorn looked up. Legolas' face was set, his eyes hard. "It is the _delgurth_, Aragorn. Nothing will help."

"Kingsfoil has ever been an aid to Elves and Men," Aragorn said. "_Your _people taught it to us."

"Not this time," Legolas said. "I lived through the horror-death once before and it cost me the comfort of the sea. Do not take the power of athelas from me also."

Aragorn hesitated, and then dropped the pouch back onto the table. "What, then?"

"You brought us here. Do it. Do not drag it out with pleasantries."

A chill ran up Aragorn's spine: there was something about those words that teased at his memory.

He tried to shrug it off. "All right. Just . . . try to relax. I can shield you from the worst of it. Remember, whatever you see, they are only memories. They cannot hurt you. You are here, and you are safe."

He raised his hand, but in a swift motion Legolas sidestepped him, avoiding his touch. In the next instant the Elf was behind him, and Aragorn felt a strong arm grasp him, pulling him off balance.

"No," Legolas said, and his breath was hot against Aragorn's ear. "I am not safe. Nowhere is safe. You want to feel it, Elessar? You want to know what it is like? Over and over again you have brought us to this precipice, but you never quite dare to go over the edge. Coward. You should have had me in Harad."

"Stop it," Aragorn said. "I'm trying to help."

"Is that what you tell yourself? Is that how you can sleep at night, and face your Queen in the morning? You said that you would choose her life over mine. But see, you are with me now."

"_Daro!_" Aragorn struggled, gripping the arm that held him fast. He shifted his feet, ready to throw Legolas off, but the Elf yanked him backward and he crashed to the floor. Then Legolas was on him, his full weight pinning him down.

"You need not enter my mind to feel it. What I felt when you held me down, when you drugged me to take me. I've no drugs to give you now, but that's all right. You want to feel it all. What you dream of but dare not admit; what I cannot forget. Your mouth on my skin, your hands holding me. So do it. Live it again, and finish it this time."

Tearing open Aragorn's collar, Legolas pressed his face to the juncture of his neck. Aragorn cried out as he felt the Elf's teeth on his skin. Catching Legolas by the shoulders he pushed him off.

"Stop it! What has gotten into you?" Then he saw the look in Legolas' eyes. He paused. "Are you trying to make me angry? Why? Is it so that I'll send you away? Or . . . are you trying to frighten me?"

Legolas averted his eyes. "You should be frightened. If you had any inkling of what you will bring on yourself by doing this, you would be terrified."

"I am," Aragorn said. "Elbereth, Legolas, I am. For myself, and for you."

He shifted his position, disentangling his legs from the Elf's. Then kneeling beside Legolas he said, "I am not Dragaer. You must believe me. I do not want this. I will do what I must, but I would to Eru there were another way."

Legolas turned his face away. "It does not matter. The result is the same." He closed his eyes. "Do it then."

This was hardly encouraging, but Aragorn accepted it as the best that he was likely to get. "All right," he said. "I'll go slowly. It's going to be all right."

He laid his hand gently on Legolas' chest. He breathed in, filling his lungs with the mingled smells of smoke and candle grease, wool and leather and the spring forest scent of Legolas' hair. As he exhaled he envisioned a line of energy flowing from his core down his arm and into Legolas. His hand tingled with the warmth of its passing.

He heard Legolas' breath catch and felt the Elf tense as the healing strength poured into him. But Legolas did not pull away.

Aragorn followed it, a shining thread into the black. The shadow was weaker now than it had been, lessened by the loss of those sense memories that he had taken, the layers of pain by which it had anchored itself to Legolas. But it was far from finished. The greatest hurt still remained.

The shadow was like a weight suspended as he passed into Legolas' mind, heavy above him and waiting to fall. But before he could think of what that meant the memories were upon him, images and sensations crowding so fast and thick that there was no hope of resisting. It was all he could do to hang on against the flood, to take them as they came.

_The tent in Harad, and he was kneeling to swear a terrible oath. There was a sharp taste on his tongue, the sting of wine mixed with the musk of leather and something else, something dangerous that he could not name – and it was in his lungs, in his throat and he could not breathe, he was choking, hard hands on his throat and on his arm, holding him down –_

Aragorn gasped, falling to his knees beneath the onslaught. But he did not fight it. He struggled to open himself to it; to accept the rush of alien taste and scent and touch that were more intense than any human senses could be.

_His muscles were failing, growing weak. His vision blurred and the sounds of his struggle, grunting and panting breath, grew distant. Hands were touching him, such familiar hands, calloused fingers on his neck and on his chest, sliding beneath his tunic. He struggled to open his eyes and looked up through the haze into his own face suffused with lust._

Legolas was there, somewhere behind him and at least partially shielded from the torrent in his mind. The knowledge that if he fell now Legolas would be subjected to it all again was the only thing that kept Aragorn from turning and fleeing at that moment.

_The scratch of bristles on his skin, hot breath and then pain that exploded within his mind as Aragorn bit down upon his neck and sucked. More bites trailing across his chest, and each one was like a tiny death within his heart. For this was love's death, the breaking of an Elven heart, and the worst of it was that this which was taken now by force he might have given freely, in another world, in another time, had history woven a different course._

_Too late now. Too late to give, even if he could, for rough hands were sliding down his belly, forcing apart his legs, and the agony that welled within his breast was that of an Elven love betrayed: both greater in its giving and more terrible in its dying than any mortal could ever know._

_His lips moved as he both spoke and heard the words – "Estel, please. Please, you're hurting me," – and it was over._

It was over. The rush of memories ceased, and Aragorn knelt alone and shaking in the dark. "Oh Eru. Oh Elbereth and Manwë above . . ."

The tears were streaming down his cheeks. He covered his face, curling in upon himself in a paroxysm of grief and guilt. For a long time it seemed that he lay thus, and then he felt a touch upon his arm.

"It was not your fault," Legolas said.

"It was," Aragorn said. He kept his eyes closed, unable to look at the Elf.

"No. The shadow did that to you, as it did to me."

"How can you say that?" Aragorn pushed himself up to face Legolas, incredulous. "After what I did to you, when you –"

He broke off, swallowing hard. "That's why you tried so hard to keep me away, isn't it? You did not want me to see how you truly felt. Though I should have known. That night in Dol Amroth, and this morning – there are reasons why the darkness takes the form it does in me, and in you."

He looked searchingly at Legolas. "You asked me once – all those years of our friendship . . . were they all a lie?"

Legolas lowered his eyes. "No," he said. "The love I bear for you would not change were it given to a brother in friendship, or to a physical lover. For an Elf, truly there is little difference."

Aragorn gave a shaky smile. "Do not tell Gimli that."

A look of alarm crossed Legolas' face. "Valar, no! I would have an axe at my throat every time I tried to enter his room."

Aragorn laughed. Then, sobering, he studied Legolas. "'The love you bear', you said. But that love died. I felt it."

Legolas scrubbed a hand over his face. "You felt it dying. But some promises run deeper than even the shadow's reach. And my heart is stubborn, if nothing else."

"That much I knew," Aragorn smiled. Then he hesitated. "Then . . . you never thought about . . .?"

Legolas frowned, and then slowly his brow cleared in understanding. "Ah. No. Ask Arwen to explain the intricacies of Elven relationships, if you like – I have no patience for it now. Suffice it to say that that path was closed to us ere it ever might have opened. Had you desired it I might not have objected, out of the love I bore you, but you were a boy, and by the time you became a man your heart was given to her."

Aragorn stared. "What does that mean? Legolas, what does that mean?"

Legolas sighed. "Valar spare me from human preconceptions. You are inside my _mind_, Aragorn. Can you imagine any connection deeper than that? There is nothing physical here. But if there were, would it really make such a difference?"

"Yes," Aragorn said. "It would. Legolas, you were my friend. That's all I wanted. That's all I ever wanted."

"And that is all you ever had," Legolas said. "But it was an Elven friendship, and if you are to bond with an Elf then you must understand what that means. We give all of ourselves in such bonds: our strength and spirit and mind. The body alone is reserved for one's life-mate, but truly, what is the body compared to that? It never occurred to me that you might ask . . . but if you had, it would not have changed much between us."

"But it is different," Aragorn said. "What I share with Arwen . . . I can love you both equally, but not in the same manner. The bond is different. I can feel it."

"Of that you can speak better than I," Legolas said. "But in any case it does not matter. You did not ask, and I was content. Whatever darker impulses are buried in our hearts, it was not in my nature, nor in yours."

Aragorn considered this in silence. "Would that I had understood my heart better," he said at last. "So much suffering could have been prevented, had I only known."

Legolas clasped his shoulder. Aragorn looked up in surprise, and then tentatively he returned the gesture. Their eyes met, and Legolas held his gaze fearlessly. Slowly Aragorn began to smile.

He did not know which of them made the first move. But a moment later his arms were around Legolas, pulling him close in an awkward embrace as they knelt upon the floor, and Legolas was hugging him tightly in return. Warmth welled between them: energy and strength that seemed to come neither from him nor from Legolas but from the connection between them.

Aragorn closed his eyes, luxuriating in the sensation of healing that took nothing from him, which was created and shared between them equally. The warmth flowed through him: relaxing muscles knotted for so long in pain, banishing darkness and pouring down to finally close the deepest wounds dealt to his heart and spirit.

They met fully in that contact, everything that they were, and nothing was hidden any longer. Aragorn was trembling, and he thought to draw back, and then Legolas pulled him closer. Aragorn's throat tightened in a rush of joy and gratitude at being known so completely, both the best and the worst of himself accepted, and loved, and loving so deeply in return.

He knew then, though he could not have expressed it in words, that there was such a thing as friendship deeper than brotherhood, love stronger than blood

Then Legolas pulled away. "You should go," he said.

Aragorn came back to himself with a start. "What's wrong?"

Legolas was on his feet, staring into the darkness that surrounded them, his eyes wide. "Go, now!"

Aragorn stood up. "We aren't done yet. You know that."

"I know it," Legolas said grimly. "The shadow knows it too."

"Then give me the tools to fight it. There is only one memory left. Give it to me and the shadow will die."

"It will kill you."

"I am mortal!" Aragorn said. "I'll die in any case. But you will live. Legolas, please!"

Legolas shook his head. "I can't."

"You must!"

"No!" Legolas whirled on him. "I surrendered to Dragaer rather than let you see. Do you understand that? I gave myself up to the worst death imaginable because I could not bear the shame of it being witnessed. You cannot ask me to bear it now!"

"Legolas," Aragorn said. "Legolas, I'm sorry, truly I am, but I have already seen it. In the palantír, do you remember? The worst is over. There is no shame in letting me help you now."

Legolas stared at him. He cast a glance over his shoulder and then turned back to Aragorn, breathing hard. The darkness was growing deeper, Aragorn realized. The light immediately about them was if anything greater than before, but somehow the blackness outside it had become correspondingly heavier, more present. It was as if something were taking physical form out there.

"Order me," Legolas said.

Aragorn blinked. "What?"

Legolas moved so fast that Aragorn almost did not see it. In a heartbeat he closed the distance between them, his hands fisting in Aragorn's tunic. "_Order me._ Command me to give you the memories. Now. I cannot do it on my own, but I swore an oath to you. You are the King. If you would save my life, then order me now."

Aragorn froze at the import of those words. Were it not for Legolas holding him upright he might have sunk down to the floor. Like the pieces of a puzzle falling into place a hundred images tumbled before his eyes – of Legolas jumping down from the courtyard wall; of Legolas accepting the saddle for the journey to Dol Amroth; of Legolas coming to his study that morning. And he realized: ever since that awful moment in the Houses when Legolas had sworn himself in exchange for Gimli's life, he had obeyed every command that he put to him. However gently or kindly Aragorn phrased it, however well he meant it, Legolas obeyed. Every command. Every time.

He recoiled, pulling out of the Elf's grip. "No! Legolas, I'm sorry. Eru, I'm so sorry. I absolve you of your oath. If you do this it must be of your own will, not mine."

Legolas swore. He looked at Aragorn, and then behind him again. The darkness was getting closer. He swallowed. "I –"

The shadow hit Aragorn with the force of a dragon's charge, slamming him to the ground. Claws of ice scored his skin, raking burning trails in their wake. He cried out, not knowing if Legolas could hear, not knowing if he would answer if he did.

The weight was crushing him, an impossible weight. The darkness was cutting into his chest, greedy claws reaching to penetrate his heart. He struck out blindly, but it was as though the beast's flesh melted before his touch, leaving his hands to pass through harmlessly and then reforming more solidly and more tightly around him than before.

His lungs were squeezed to bursting and his vision blurred. At the edge of consciousness, half-hallucinating he imagined that he saw light: white light flowing out like blood from the rents in his chest. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and there was only darkness. Cold. The chill was seeping into him, his heart was growing cold and his limbs were so heavy, so hard to lift even to struggle. It was easier to give in, to simply drift in the shadow's embrace, and it would not be long now . . .

Then a hand closed on his arm, yanking him up out of pain and darkness and into the light. Aragorn collapsed, shivering, heaving desperate breaths. It seemed a long time that he lay there before at last the pounding of his heart subsided and he could look around.

Legolas stood over him, facing the darkness, a long knife glinting in his hand. He had not been armed before.

Aragorn groaned. "What was that?"

"A hobbit. What do you think?" Legolas did not look around. Aragorn grimaced. The Elf was obviously on edge, and in no mood for foolish questions. He took a moment to muster his thoughts.

"It was a mental assault, then? We are still in your mind."

Legolas glanced at him. "No. That is, yes, we are still in my mind, but no, the attack was physical, and very real. Had I not reached you when I did your heart would have stopped."

"Then I am grateful," Aragorn said. "Often have I given thanks for the strength of the Elves, but never more than now."

"The strength is yours," Legolas said. "You gave it to me, and kept little for yourself it seems. But I have more experience in bearing the shadow. It is easier now."

"Easier!" Aragorn coughed, rubbing his chest. He got to his feet. "So what now?"

"I would suggest that you arm yourself," Legolas said, still watching the darkness. "It is no longer a matter of my choice. I cannot stop it. It is coming."

"What is coming?" Aragorn felt a familiar weight at his hip and reached down to grasp the hilt of Andûril. "The shadow?"

"No," Legolas said. "The _delgurth._"

"What?" Aragorn said, and then there was a roar as of the Falls of Rauros multiplied a thousand times, and the horror-death fell on them.

Aragorn had just barely time to push Legolas behind him before the full force of it hit. A tidal wave of sensations slammed into him: sight and taste and sound and touch and smell assaulting him from every side. He was bowled over, crushed beneath it and someone was screaming, screaming –

_Screaming inside his mind and he was drowning, drowning in the desert sand and his throat was raw from screaming and the taste of blood, blood on his wrists and on the ropes that cut him, burning, burning under the sun and the stars and he was running, running with Arod while the gulls screamed –_

The torrent hurtled through him: rage and hurt and the touch of a hand that seared down every nerve. He shut his eyes and covered his ears but he could not block the sound.

_Because it was his own voice screaming, always screaming and he could dam his lips to silence and lock away the pain so that the mortals could not hear but he could never stop the screaming –_

Legolas was behind him. Aragorn was lost, disoriented, not daring to see, unable to think. There was hardly any direction any longer – no up, no down, no future or past, just screaming and darkness and pain – but _Legolas was behind him and he could not fall._

That single, implacable fact rose like a rock amidst the raging flood. As the ground gave way beneath him and the deluge took him Aragorn caught hold of it and with the last extremity of his strength held on.

He could not fall. Legolas needed him. He could not fall.

The world was going mad, around him and inside him: light and dark and taste and touch cutting through every nerve with the swift and brutal ease of broken glass. This was the horror-death, and none could survive it.

_Certainly no mortal could endure it: no weak and failing Man who could not even stand against the shadow, the mere shade of the _delgurth;_ who hid even from the darkness in his own soul. It would destroy him as an afterthought: sweep aside his feeble protection and take at last the Elven spirit that had cheated it so long._

Aragorn knew its thought, felt it with every shard that pierced him. He saw the death it brought in agony and shame, a death of which no warrior song would be sung, a death suffered alone. He thought of Arwen, and wished that he could tell her – but there was no time. It was coming. He closed his eyes and drew a last breath, and stood to meet it.

_It was the sea. It fell on him like an ocean crashing to earth, blotting out all light, all sound. As a drowning man dragged to the depths he floundered, groping blindly in the dark. His chest was burning, caving under the enormous pressure; he could not breathe._

_It was the sea. Waves of iron broke upon his bones, shattering inside him. He was ripped apart, torn open and laid waste in mind and soul and body. Water flooded his lungs and he was screaming, always screaming, but he was drowning and none could hear. It was the sea that took him, and used him and broke him and discarded him as a plaything on its shore, and it was the s –_

"No," Aragorn said.

There was a pause as though of a tsunami stopping to listen. For a single moment it hung suspended in silence while the world waited. Aragorn drew a breath. He _could _breathe; he was weak and shaking with reaction, but there was air. Somewhere far away his body was still in his study. The sea's assault was an illusion.

Then the moment passed. _The wave came rushing back to sweep him away and drive him down, and he could hear its roar and he could taste its salt upon his lips –_

"No! It is _not _the sea. It never was the sea!" Aragorn shouted. He was standing, and Andûril was in his hand, shining like a brand against the dark.

"That was but the cloak that Legolas gave you. But if you are the _delgurth_ then I will face you openly. Show yourself!"

Another pause, and then slowly the ocean's roar died away. The darkness retreated, and in its wake Aragorn became aware of a red light growing. There was a gentle rocking, and the distant lap of waves. Timber creaked.

He turned. The strangest thing, he thought later, when he was able to think again, was how warm the room appeared at first sight, how welcoming. The windows were lit with red fire, but the yellow glow of the ship's lantern illuminated the rich wood paneled walls, the brightly woven rug upon the floor and the spill of charts across the heavy desk.

It was only on closer examination that the signs showed of something wrong. The carpet was rumpled, one corner flipped over wrong side up. A saddle lay against the wall amidst a tangle of rope, a large section broken off from its base. A large red-brown stain had seeped into the rug and trailed rust coloured drops across the floor.

"His hands were bleeding," Dragaer said.

Aragorn whipped around, raising his sword. The sea-captain was standing next to the desk, his hands at his sides. His cutlass was belted to his waist. Dragaer met his eyes calmly, and then indicated the bloodstains on the floor.

"I told my men not to cut him. I wanted no marks, you see. But he'd stripped the skin from his wrists getting free of the saddle. There wasn't much I could do about that."

Dragaer shrugged. "It was all right in the end. He didn't bleed all that much – most of what you see here is from the men that he killed. And the ropes hid the damage nicely once he was on the bed."

"Where is he?" Aragorn said. He was trembling, his hand clenched white-knuckled on Andûril's hilt.

"I wonder if that is why they never healed?" Dragaer mused. "The other injuries from the fight faded with time – even the bruising of his throat healed eventually. Except for the mark that _you _gave him, of course. And his wrists. It must be the abrasions from the ropes on the bed. . . . He is nearby."

"_Where?_ Show him to me!"

"At once, Your Majesty," Dragaer said. His black eyes were mocking, amused. "I would not dream of denying you the pleasure. But . . . are you certain that he wants you?"

Aragorn lunged, slamming the larger man against the wall. He pressed Andûril's blade against the Corsair's throat. "On your life, Dragaer. Give him back to me or I will kill you now."

"Oh, but you did that already," Dragaer smiled. "I am long since dead and gone, and yet here I am. Elven memory is a wonderful thing, is it not? For example . . ." he gestured with one hand.

Aragorn turned. A great bed stood in the corner, the sleeping pad suspended between four huge posts that ran from floor to ceiling.

"They keep it from sliding about in rough weather," Dragaer said. He walked to the bed and laid a hand against one of the massive beams. "A hammock in the hold is fine enough for a sailor, but a King should have something better, don't you agree? And though you stole my birthright, I _am _a King."

"Where is Legolas?" Aragorn said. A low throbbing was growing at the back of his head. There was a sour taste in his mouth.

"Of course it serves other uses as well," Dragaer continued. "Even the girls can occasionally be a challenge without a man to hold them down – and I dislike witnesses. They complicate things. So I have the bed, and ropes tied with sailors' knots, and they are beautiful. The boys are even better, and the young men best of all – they will wriggle and kick even when they know it is useless. But your Elf . . . oh, he was glorious."

Pain shot up the side of Aragorn's face as his jaw clenched. Dragaer leaned over to touch a crack in the face of one of the wooden beams. "He nearly broke the bed apart. Can you imagine that? Just think of the power, the fury in him at that moment. But he stopped. I told him that you would see it all, that I would make you believe that you had done it, and he stopped. But now . . . here you are. Will he thank you, do you think?"

Dragaer stepped back, and Legolas appeared upon the bed. He was stretched full length across it, naked, his hands and feet bound to the four posts. His hair was unbraided, strewn across the bed in wild disarray. His face was turned to the side, his eyes tightly shut, but Aragorn saw the tear tracks that streaked down his temples.

Dragaer stroked a hand over Legolas' hair. Legolas tensed, the muscles knotting in his arms and legs as he strained, and then relaxed. His body was faintly sheened with sweat. "Beautiful," Dragaer murmured. "So beautiful."

He looked up. "I am sorry that his memory will contain nothing of what I felt. His side of the experience was, I fear, much less pleasant. Although . . ." he looked thoughtful. "As I understand it the physical act also forces a mental bond as well, does it not? He fled, and masked it in the sea, but he did not escape entirely. So . . . it may be that something from my mind passed into his? It is a possibility, anyway. Perhaps if you dig deeply enough you will find it."

"Leave him alone," Aragorn said. His stomach was churning.

"And let you have him for yourself? Of course, Your Majesty. Your wish is my command." Dragaer bowed theatrically and then stopped, a finger on his lips. "Oh, but I forgot. Silly me, I cannot. This _happened._ What was will be again. It is only a memory, and not even you can change it."

"So that's it," Aragorn said. "You stay down here, in the heart of him, forcing him to live it over and over – _all the time_. Every hour of his life he cannot escape it, and you're killing him."

"I think he'll last a little longer," Dragaer said. "He is so strong, and so very stubborn. He promised to remain for your lifetime, did he not? And you have seen how he keeps his promises. His body might weaken from the strain of it, and become wretched, and he might well lose his mind – but _here _he will remain beautiful, and fight and lose and be broken again, and again, oh yes."

Dragaer bent swiftly then and kissed Legolas, hard, forcing the Elf's face up with one hand while the other stroked down his side to grasp his hip. The next instant Aragorn's hand caught his shoulder, yanking him off, and as Dragaer stumbled back Aragorn plunged Andûril into his chest.

He felt the sword catch against the Captain's ribs and he shoved it deeper, breaking through bone to pierce the heart. Dragaer crumpled to the floor. Aragorn stood a moment, panting, and then turned to Legolas on the bed. His sword was buried in Dragaer, but a moment's concentration produced a dagger at his belt, and Aragorn quickly cut the ropes at Legolas' wrists. He was helping him to sit up, pulling the bedsheet to cover him, when Dragaer stood up behind him.

The world shifted, and Aragorn was standing as before, facing Dragaer with Andûril in his hand. The sudden change left him off balance, and he staggered. Catching himself against one of the massive bedposts he looked around, trying to get his bearings. Dragaer was again standing next to the bed and Legolas was bound upon it, laid out like an offering before them.

"You fool," Dragaer said. "You idiot. Do you not understand even now? I _am _the _delgurth._" He spread his arms to take in the scene around them. "I am suffering, and shame, and rage. I am the breaking. I am what was, and what will be forever. You cannot change it. You cannot stop it. Kill me and I will return to take him again, and again, in the darkness and the pain and the screaming that will never stop, no matter what you do."

"I know," Aragorn said. He was breathing hard. "But I just couldn't resist the opportunity to kill you again."

He walked forward until he stood face to face with the Corsair, staring into his eyes. "So here we are, you and me and him, just as Dragaer dreamed. Do you remember? You may be the _delgurth_, but you have his form in this place. And you speak with his voice, and as though you have his memories. So do you? Because I am here, and I have made my choice."

Taking a quarter turn to the side he brought Andûril down in a swift arc, slicing through the ropes at Legolas' wrists. The Elf's hands fell free. Dragaer sighed. "All those years I spent plotting to outmaneuver you, so careful lest you suspect. I needn't have bothered. You are so _thick._ In a moment time will reset and he'll only be bound again."

"No," Aragorn said. "He won't." A second stroke freed Legolas' feet. Aragorn pulled him up, supporting Legolas against his side. The Elf's head lolled against his shoulder. His eyes were still closed.

"You cannot stop it!" Dragaer said. "All that he felt, all that he endured, he is _still _enduring. It is a part of him now, woven into the links of his body and mind and soul. That is what the horror-death _is_. It is the pain that never stops, the suffering that never ends, not while he lives."

Aragorn laid Legolas carefully down on the floor. He stood to face Dragaer. "All right. I cannot stop you. I understand that. The horror – the _rape _– happened. And in this place it will continue to happen, all the suffering, all the shame and the rage and the pain over and over again – but not to him. Not to him."

He paused then, and picked up Andûril from where he had set it next to the bed. He studied it for a moment, turning the sword over in his hand, and then glanced up at Dragaer. "It's a pity. I really wanted to kill you again."

He leaned the sword carefully against the desk. Then he undid his belt and dropped it to the floor together with his dagger.

Dragaer watched him, frowning. "What are you doing?"

Aragorn bent to unlace his boots. The left one had become knotted and he finally just yanked it off, grunting when it came free. He started to undo his tunic and then stopped. "Your men did that part before, but I suppose that you can do it yourself now. The main thing is that it's against your victim's will, isn't it? That's all that really matters."

Dragaer stared at him. Aragorn met his eyes. Then he looked at the bed. His stomach turned over, and he swallowed hard. "All right, then."

He took a deep breath, and laying himself down on the bed he stretched out his arms. Dragaer came to stand over him, still frowning.

Aragorn had to force himself to remain still as he looked up at the Corsair, every muscle tensed. There was a fluttering sensation in his gut, and the air seemed too close and thin to breathe. His voice was strained. "When?"

Dragaer reached down and stroked Aragorn's hair. Aragorn shivered, his hands clenching involuntarily into fists. Dragaer smiled.

"Now," he said.

The ropes snaked around Aragorn's wrists and ankles, rough cords that cut into his skin. He gasped, and then gradually the initial sting dulled to a deep heat. He felt the first blood trickle down his arm.

Glassware clinked, and he heard the sound of water pouring into a cup. He was gripped by a sudden raging thirst, his lips cracked and dry and his throat desperately sore. Dragaer held the cup to his mouth and he drank greedily, the shame coursing through him with every swallow but unable to stop.

When he finished Dragaer set the cup aside and stood to undo his robe. Bile stung Aragorn's throat. "Why are you doing this?"

He spoke the words without conscious thought and as Dragaer replied he realized that it was only another part of the scene that they were enacting, the roles that had been laid out long before and played again countless times, the same pattern of hurt and loss worn smooth by endless repetition.

But he still felt the full depth of Legolas' despair.

"Hush." Dragaer said at last. "No more talking."

Dragaer opened his tunic almost gently, sliding the lacings from their holes and pushing it down over his shoulders. He stepped back a moment to look at his handiwork, and Aragorn saw the heat in his gaze. He closed his eyes.

Rough hands grabbed his shirt, ripping it open with a violence that belied their previous care. Buttons popped from their moorings and flew, and Dragaer pushed his hands beneath the fabric, sliding over Aragorn's skin.

Aragorn hissed. Dragaer's touch was like a brand that burned a trail over his chest and ribs down to his stomach. Of course. It was his body now, but the sense memory was still Legolas'. He would feel it as acutely as an Elf.

Dragaer reached his leggings, fumbling with their strings, his breath coming harder now. Aragorn felt the burning touch trail over his hip, down between his thighs, and his mind shied away. He retreated, drawing a veil between himself and what was happening to him, and the Sindarin longing returned to him with all the power of escape.

_It was the sea. The sea did this to him, not a Man, no mortal Man could break him so it had to be the sea –_

"No!" Aragorn opened his eyes. Dragaer was on top of him, panting, and Aragorn realized that the world had shifted again – he was now completely nude, as Legolas had been, and Dragaer had discarded his robe and leggings. Aragorn's whole being recoiled from the sight, but he forced himself to watch, forced himself to accept the truth of what was happening.

Dragaer looked up and caught his eye. He grinned then, and grabbing the back of Aragorn's neck he brought their mouths together in a bruising kiss. He tasted of onions and the cloves that the Corsairs chewed, and as his tongue forced entry into his mouth Aragorn gagged. Then Dragaer pulled back, and his hands slid down to grasp Aragorn's hips, lifting him.

Aragorn could not help it. He shut his eyes, turning his face away, but he could not block himself from feeling what happened next.

Discomfort at first, a growing pressure and then the pain slammed into him, and oh, he knew why Legolas had made it into the sea, because nothing but an ocean could hurt so much. It was too much, too strong – he could not feel that intensely. No human senses could feel that intensely. He was breaking, splitting in two as it drove into him, and then it pulled back and came again, and it could not possibly cut him deeper but it did. His body was torn open, ripped apart and bleeding and still it came, harder and harder, rocking him against the bed so that the cords at his ankles yanked tighter with every thrust. He could feel the blood running freely now, down his legs and dripping from his hands.

Still it came, harder and harder and he was screaming now, truly screaming as the agony ripped fire down every nerve and sinew and burned into his mind – the assault was inside his _mind_ – and he would never be able to forget, never be able to stop screaming. Dragaer cried out, a shout of triumph as heat spurted deep inside him, shame searing even greater than the pain.

Aragorn hung limp in the aftermath, vaguely aware of the tears that streaked down his temples and caught in his ears. Dragaer fell on top of him, his weight pushing him down so that the cords at his ankles and wrists pulled taut. He felt them like bands of fire on his skin. His hands were numb. The air was thick with the musk of sweat and sex, and something was trickling between his legs.

Dragaer breathed heavily for a moment, and then pushed himself off. It was over, Aragorn thought. It was done, and he had survived. In fact the entire ordeal had lasted only few minutes. With an Elf's senses he had felt it as the ending of the world. Now looking back with human eyes he wondered how something so vast, so all-consuming, could be so small.

Dragaer stood and began to pull back on his leggings. "Give it a minute or two and it will reset."

Aragorn rolled his head to the side to look at him. "It's over," he said. "It's done."

Dragaer paused in the act of putting on his robe, one eyebrow arched. "It never ends."

"It does this time," Aragorn said. His bruised lips pulled into a smile. "The rape occured once in life, as I have endured it once. The sense memory is mine now, and I am mortal. It cannot force me to live it again."

"Oh, you think yourself clever," Dragaer said. "Behold Elessar the Wise! You think you can outwit the _delgurth._ But see, there are some things yet that are beyond you." He bent swiftly and when he straightened again Aragorn's knife was in his hand. He leaned across the bed to cut the ropes. Aragorn winced as the blood returned his starved extremities, as the strained muscles of his back and arms were forced to move.

Then Dragaer was hauling him up, directing his gaze to the limp form of Legolas laid upon the floor. "_He _yet lives! The part of him that clung to this life even during his breaking, that experienced the rape as it truly was and wove its horror into the sea – he remains. And so long as he lives, so too will the _delgurth_. You can live it once and escape, mortal, but here it will go on, with or without you, forever."

Aragorn stared. The sick realization was rolling through him of how badly he had misjudged, of how great was the cost yet to be paid. He drew a shaking breath.

"All right."

"What?" Dragaer said.

"All right," Aragorn said again. He lay back down on the bed. "A minute or two, you said, before it resets. So we may as well get ready."

Already a burning thirst was growing in his throat. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw one of the ropes move, its severed threads weaving back together. Dragaer walked back to the head of the bed. His hands moved to the fastening of his robe.

"_Daro._"

Dragaer whipped around. Aragorn pushed himself up on one elbow, craning his neck to see.

Legolas was crossing the blood-stained carpet toward them. Aragorn's first thought was that the unconscious Elf had risen from the floor, but a swift glance told him that he had not moved. This was a different Legolas who stalked toward them, clad in hunting green and brown, his hair tied back in warrior's braids and a long knife in his hand.

"Come to join the fun?" Dragaer said, but he looked shaken. Legolas' gaze was murderous.

"I've had enough of your 'fun'," Legolas spat. "As has he." He looked at Aragorn. "Get up."

"Legolas, no," Aragorn said. "I can't stop it. I'm sorry. I tried. But if I remain I can block you from feeling it."

"I know," Legolas said. "That is how I was able to finally come here. All this time I could not face it, walled off from a part of myself."

He crossed to the version of himself that lay upon the floor. Crouching down, he stroked a lock of hair back from his face. "A part of my own mind," he murmured. "The part that could not escape, that had to experience the _delgurth _as it truly was."

In a fluid motion he straightened. He looked at Dragaer. "And he remained trapped down here, living it over and over and translating its horror into the sea before it reached me. That shield kept me alive in Middle-earth, and forced me _remain _in Middle-earth, and I could not bear it_. You_ did that to me."

The knife came up in line with Dragaer's neck. The Corsair stared at it, swallowing hard. Then he laughed. "Kill me then. It does not matter. In a moment I'll be back, and it will all happen again. Perhaps _you _will lie down for me this time, Elf."

"No!" Aragorn said. "Legolas, go! Leave now."

Legolas turned his head to look at him. The white knife did not waver, its tip an inch from Dragaer's throat. "Is that an order, my lord?"

"Yes," Aragorn said. "You won't feel it, I promise. Close the door to this memory, and leave. Legolas, I command you to go."

"Ah." Legolas smiled. "You make a fine King, Estel. But as it happens, you absolved me of my oath. I am not subject to your command."

He whirled, bringing the knife around in a flashing arc and plunging it into the heart of the Legolas at his feet.

"No!" Aragorn shouted, and he thought that Dragaer screamed, but their voices were lost in the vast sea roar as the walls around them shattered. Darkness exploded before a blinding hail of light, streaming through Aragorn and pushing him back out of Legolas' mind and into his own.

He landed hard, and for some time he could only lie there, dazed, as the fragmented pieces of his consciousness slowly coalesced. Gradually sensation filtered back to him: the feel of the floor hard beneath him, a stinging pain at his wrists. He was terribly thirsty.

Slowly he cracked open his eyes, squinting against the sunlight. He was half-sitting, half-lying on the floor of his study, his upper body supported by something soft. He turned his head, wincing at the twinge in his neck. Legolas was sitting behind him, slumped forward against Aragorn's back. He was holding Aragorn, his arms wrapped around him, but his muscles were slack. His head hung down, and his eyes were closed.


	58. To Live

"Let us not talk falsely now; the hour is getting late."

– Bob Dylan

Chapter 57: To Live

"Legolas." Aragorn pulled himself up, turning to face the Elf. Legolas slumped sideways and Aragorn caught him, easing him down to lie on the study's floor. "Legolas!"

He pressed his fingers to the Elf's neck and found the pulse there. The constriction inside his chest eased a little. Quickly he opened Legolas' collar to aid his breathing. As he pushed back the fabric, though, he paused, his fingers tracing over Legolas' collarbone.

There had been a red bruise there, the mark that he had made on that awful night in Harad. The other bruises that Legolas had suffered in the fight with the Corsairs had faded with time, but that one remained. Eight months later, it had still been there.

Now it was gone. The skin at the juncture of Legolas' neck and shoulder was pale, flawless as though the injury had never been.

The study door opened, and Arwen entered. She took in the scene at a glance and hurried forward. "What's wrong?"

Aragorn pulled off his surcoat and folded it to cushion Legolas' head. The movement sent shooting pain through the muscles of his back and shoulders and he caught his breath, wincing. "Open the window."

"Are you hurt? What happened? I felt –"

"Arwen," Aragorn looked up. "I'm fine. Everything is all right. Now please open the window. He needs air."

Arwen's face tightened, but she did as he asked. Fresh, cold air flooded into the room as she pushed open the casement. The winter sunshine streamed over Aragorn's desk and lit Legolas' face.

"Athelas," Aragorn said, and started to rise. Every muscle of his body screamed in protest. He cried out and sat down heavily.

"Aragorn!" Arwen dropped to her knees beside him, her arm around his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Aragorn managed between gritted teeth. He paused a moment, breathing hard. "I need the athelas. He has to wake."

"I'll get it." Arwen rose. Aragorn kept watch on Legolas while she moved behind him. Legolas was breathing shallowly, the faint rise and fall of his chest almost indiscernible beneath his tunic. His eyes were shut fast, their lids a bruised purplish colour.

"The water's gone cold," Arwen said.

"Bring the kettle from the fire," Aragorn said. "It will do."

There was a scrape of metal as Arwen lifted the heavy iron kettle from its hook. She set it down on the floor next to Aragorn and used the protective cloth to remove its cover. She set the drawstring pouch that contained the last of the athelas next to it. Then she crossed to the sideboard and poured a glass of water from the pitcher there.

"Here," she said. "Drink this first."

The tinkle of water triggered the memory with piercing clarity: the rocking of the ship and the lap of waves against the hull, the bite of the rope at his wrists and the trickle of water into a cup. He was desperately thirsty.

"Thank you," he said, and gulped the water gratefully. As he tipped his head back to catch the last drops the sleeve of his shirt slid up his arm, and Arwen gasped.

Aragorn reached quickly to pull his sleeve down again, but Arwen took his arm, preventing him. "These are rope burns," she said, tracing the raw flesh of his wrist. She gave him a searching look. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing," Aragorn said. "Truly, Arwen, it is nothing."

Arwen scoffed. "If this is nothing then I shudder to think what a Dúnedan would call _something_. You have been badly used. Tell me."

Aragorn sighed. "Elrond taught me that an Elf's mind is strongly linked with his body. What one experiences is often true for the other." Arwen nodded. Aragorn swallowed, and then finished in a low voice, "I believe that I now understand exactly how powerful that connection is."

Arwen stared at him. "You were in his mind," she said. "In the healing trance, you entered his mind . . ."

Aragorn looked away. "As I said, it was nothing, just a memory. I must wake him."

He shook the last few leaves of athelas from the pouch into his hand, then cupped his palms together and brought them to his face. He blew on them, and then cast the dried leaves into the gently steaming kettle. As the air began to freshen he bent over Legolas.

"Legolas? It's time to wake. Come now. Follow my voice." He laid his palm against Legolas' chest, but Arwen caught his hand.

"No," she said. Aragorn looked at her, startled, and she met his eyes with a fierce gaze. "You cannot initiate the trance," she said. "You haven't any strength left to give him."

"I must," Aragorn said. "You don't understand. He . . . There was something that was holding him here before, anchoring him to life. I think that it is gone now. There is nothing left to keep him from fading."

Arwen's hand tightened on his. "I do understand," she said. "But if he answers you it must be of his own will. Give him the choice."

"I _am,_" Aragorn snapped, and then caught himself. He was trembling on the edge of exhaustion, his nerves frayed by strain, but that was no cause to lash out at Arwen. He took a breath.

"I'm sorry," he said more quietly. "You are right, it's just . . ." _He cannot die,_ he thought, but did not say aloud. _I could not bear it if he died._

"Help me," he said. Arwen looked at him in surprise, and then nodded. Moving to Legolas' other side, she took his right hand. Aragorn took Legolas' left, feeling the Elf's fingers cold against his palm.

"Legolas. Greenleaf, come back. Please. We need you still in Middle-earth."

Arwen took a breath. Leaning forward she stroked back Legolas' hair, shining golden in the sunlight. "He needs you," she murmured. "And . . . so do I. There is business yet between us, Thranduilion. Hear him. Answer his call."

There was more that Aragorn wanted to say, to tell Legolas that he could not give up after everything they had been through, that after fighting for so long he could not die now at the hour of triumph. But his voice choked, and all he could do was whisper.

"_Mellon nîn_ . . . please."

Legolas inhaled, his head tilting back and the line of his throat lengthening as his chest rose. His hand moved and Aragorn released his grip, holding his breath.

Legolas' eyes opened, and he looked up at Arwen. "My lady," he whispered. Reaching up, he brushed the tips of his fingers against her cheek. "Undómiel. Can you forgive me?"

Arwen caught his hand, smiling, though her eyes shone with unshed tears. "If you can forgive me."

Legolas started to sit up and winced, pressing a hand to his temple. "Oh, my head. I . . . Aragorn!"

He bolted upright, grabbing Aragorn's arms. "Estel!"

Aragorn flinched, but the next instant Legolas pulled him into a hug. "Thank the Valar."

Aragorn felt a rush of sheer joy as he hugged his friend in return. But his body's reaction was entirely different. The memories were too close, too real, and now he was held tight, he could not move – he fought the urge to pull free, his breath coming swift and shallow in his lungs. There was a panicky fluttering in his stomach.

Legolas must have felt his distress, for he drew back look at him. He studied him a moment, concern giving way to understanding in his eyes. "I am sorry," he said. "I tried to avoid this."

"You did warn me," Aragorn said. He mustered a smile, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. "You're alive. I would not have it any other way."

Arwen touched his shoulder. "You're shaking."

Legolas started to speak and then stopped, turning his head as if to listen. A moment later Aragorn heard it: the tramp of boots in the hall outside, and a deep voice raised in agitation.

"Yes I _know _what the King said, but that was to keep out those chattering court toadies, not me. . . . I don't care, it's been flipping _hours _and you're telling me you haven't even knocked to see if he's still breathing or . . . no I will _not _wait here, I'm the bleeding Lord of Aglarond and one of the Nine Walkers, you beardless rule-bound pipsqueak, I helped save the bloody world and you can just get out of my way!"

The study door banged against the wall as Gimli charged through it, the door sentry and the Royal Chamberlain scurrying ineffectually in his wake.

"My lord," the Chamberlain gasped, "Forgive me, he just came through, I couldn't stop him –"

"Legolas!" Gimli said. "Are you all right? They wouldn't tell me anything." He pulled up short in mid-stride, his sharp eyes raking from Aragorn to Legolas and back again. "Durin's beard, what happened to you?"

"Your Majesty!" The Chamberlain hurried forward, his long robes flapping behind him. "What is it? Are you hurt?" At his side the sentry was gripping the hilt of his sword, his eyes wide.

Aragorn felt them crowding around him, hemming him in. His breath was coming short and despite the open window he felt light-headed, the air whistling in his lungs. He had a horrible premonition that they would lay hands on him, touch the injuries at his wrists, examine him . . . Panic bubbled up in his throat, choking him.

Then Legolas took his elbow in a firm grip and stood, hauling Aragorn to his feet beside him. The room spun and Aragorn closed his eyes, swaying, but Arwen was at his other side, bracing him, and Legolas held on just long enough for him to find his balance before releasing him. All told the interaction lasted only a few seconds. But Gimli was studying them narrowly, frowning as he looked from one to the other.

Before he could say anything Legolas was striding forward, smiling, and catching Gimli by the arms he swung him round. "Elvellon! How good to see you!"

Gimli's jaw dropped. "Legolas? What . . .?"

"Has it really been so long?" Legolas interrupted. "I did not realize. But see – the sun is shining!" Releasing Gimli he ran to the open window. He leaned out, balancing precariously on his hands braced against the sill, and breathed deeply before pulling back inside and whirling to face them. "It is a beautiful day. What say you to a ride?"

"I . . . what . . . a ride?" Gimli shook his head as if to clear it. "There are two feet of snow on the ground!"

"I know!" Legolas laughed. Even in the midst of his confusion and pain Aragorn thrilled to hear that sound. Legolas' voice was raised in clear delight, as he had never thought to hear it again. Arwen was smiling, and the Chamberlain and guard had fallen back to stare with wide eyes, the concern for their King momentarily forgotten. Legolas had bought Aragorn a respite by his antics, if nothing else.

"Arod has become an Elven horse," Legolas said, and catching Gimli's hand he pulled him toward the door. "Shall we see if he has learned to run atop the snow?"

"More likely he'll dump you in a drift, if he's any sense at all." Gimli said. "Daft Elf, you're going to break your fool neck, and probably mine too." But he was allowing himself to be tugged forward, and his new beard did a poor job of hiding his smile.

Legolas shot a look back over Gimli's head, meeting Arwen's eyes. "All things are possible," he said. "A bath in the snow not the least. As we say,_ Daro hon. Abadertha im._ Now come, Gimli! Perhaps Arod has decided to be a Dwarf instead, and will go under the snow rather than over it."1

They had hardly gone, and Gimli's protests could still be heard retreating down the corridor, when Arwen moved into action. "Goodness," she said. "So that is a Wood-elf for you. Now it has been a trying morning, and I for one could do with some time to refresh myself. Lord Bretan, might a bath be possible? One that is not in the snow, thank you."

The Chamberlain pulled himself to attention. "At once, Your Majesty. We shall have one drawn immediately. And shall I call a healer for King Elessar?"

"No!" Aragorn said.

"No, thank you," Arwen said more calmly. "We will be fine."

"As you wish," Bretan said, but his eyes lingered on Aragorn. "Tea will be served after your bath, Your Majesty."

He bowed and retreated, taking the guard with him. As the door closed behind them Aragorn heard the Chamberlain clap his hands, summoning the servants. Arwen remained standing a moment longer, still projecting that air of bright cheerfulness, and then her shoulders sagged and she released a long breath.

Aragorn looked at her. "Thank you."

She turned toward him. "May I see?"

He hesitated, and then nodded. She took his hand, gently pushing up his sleeve. Her fingertips brushed over the burns at his wrist, and then taking his other hand she held them together, examining them in silence. Aragorn held himself still, though he could not quite repress a shiver as his nerves sparked in reaction, the trace of her fingers like phosphorescent fire across his skin.

Finally Arwen released him. Wordlessly she reached up, and pulling down his collar she touched her fingers to the red bruise at his collarbone. Her chin trembled and she pressed her lips tightly together.

"Arwen," Aragorn began, but she shook her head.

"Don't," she said. "Just don't." She drew a shaky breath. "I am mortal now, and yet there is so much that I do not know . . . will you die?"

"No," Aragorn said. He caught her hand and held it between his own. "No. It is over. I will recover, and I will live for a long time yet to come." He smiled a little and ducked his head, trying to catch her eye. "You cannot be rid of me that easily."

Arwen looked away. "Did you tell him that?" her voice fractured, and a tear spilled down her cheek. "Did he know, when he gave you to that –"

"Arwen," Aragorn pulled her close, ignoring the frisson of his nerves at the contact. She resisted at first, tensed as a coiled spring within his arms, and then the barrier broke, and she collapsed against him, burying her face in his neck.

"There," Aragorn murmured against her hair, his hand rubbing slow circles on her back. "It was not Legolas' doing. He tried to stop me. None of this is his fault."

Arwen sighed, a warm breath against his skin, and then he felt her nod. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," Aragorn said. He closed his eyes and held her while slowly the tension ebbed from his muscles and the churning of his stomach calmed. "I love you so much."

*~*~*

Wood-elves, Gimli decided, had been created by Eru just in case the universe ever got too predictable. Either that or else Legolas had finally taken leave of his wits entirely.

Eight months he had traveled with the Elf, and in all that time he had not seen him smile, unless one counted the occasional bitter twisting of his mouth when some private thought amused him. Legolas never shared what that thought was. Gimli had seen him in all shades of moods from black depression to icy anger to bleak humor, but all his efforts could not pierce Legolas' shell. It was a good day when Legolas spoke all of ten words to him. He never smiled, he never sang, and he never laughed. Gimli had almost forgotten what a normal Wood-elf was like.

He was remembering now. Legolas took them to the large exercise area adjacent to the stable yard. In the summer it provided a welcome stretch of green in the midst of the stone city. Now it was a featureless expanse of white, with drifts piled high against the surrounding stone wall.

It turned out that Arod could not actually walk on snow and a gallop proved unpractical, much to Gimli's relief. But that did not stop Legolas for long. He laughed aloud as they emerged into the crisp air and spun upon the ball of one foot, a sight so unexpected that it halted Gimli in his tracks. Within minutes of entering the paddock Legolas had teased Arod into behavior that reminded Gimli strongly of the chasing games that he had played as a child.

The horse seemed quite as pleased as Gimli was by the dramatic change in his master's demeanor, though it was impossible to tell if he shared Gimli's puzzlement at the reason for it. Encouraged by Legolas, the fiery stallion of Rohan was soon kicking up his heels with as much abandon as a yearling, charging in pursuit of the Elf who dashed away laughing across the snow's crust.

Gimli watched from the safety of the exercise yard's entrance, where the massive stone gateposts offered some protection from the wind. His head was down, his chin lowered against his chest as he chewed his lip in thought. He had not seen Legolas act so childishly, with so little apparent cause, since the episode on Caradhras over five years ago.

Then he had been trying to cheer the Hobbits and, Gimli suspected, finding some genuine amusement in his mortal companions' difficulties. But now . . . now Gimli thought that something else might be at work here.

A shower of snow caught him full in the face and he staggered back a step, sputtering. Wiping away the stinging ice he looked up, squinting against the light. He had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had completely failed to notice Arod's approach. The horse was already charging away, presenting Gimli with a view of his backside and high-waving tail.

"Gimli!" Legolas dropped to one knee beside him, peering up into his face. "Are you all right?"

"You did that deliberately!" Gimli said. A ball of snow had fallen down the back of his collar and he strained one arm behind him, turning in a half circle as he tried to reach it. "You – you – _Elf _you! That horse is a menace!"

"I am sure that Arod did not mean it," Legolas said. "It was an accident." He scooped the offending snow from Gimli's neck and tossed it aside. "Let us return to the citadel. You can bathe and change into dry clothes."

"While you go back to Aragorn, you mean," Gimli said.

Legolas froze in the act of rising to his feet. It was a moment before he straightened, and when he spoke his voice was expressionless. "I do not know what you mean."

"Oh come on," Gimli said. "Lothlórien, remember? And _abadertha _means to go back, or something like that. All these years I've known you, you don't think I've picked up a few things? Besides, I saw him back there. He looked as if he were about to keel over any moment. And you expect me to believe that you would just leave him and run off to play in the snow? Give me some credit, for Mahal's sake."

Legolas stood still, his face turned away. He spoke without looking at Gimli. "Aragorn is not the same as he once was . . . and neither am I. There is much that is different now."

"Aye," Gimli said. "But not _that _much. Not so much that you would leave him, not knowing if he was recovering or dying or what. No. You want to know what _I _think, I think this was all a distraction for me and that steward. Get us out of there, give me a show of how much better you are, and then drop me back at my room while you go haring off back to him."

Legolas shook his head. "I _am _better than I was," he said. "You have no idea . . . I was trapped in the darkness for so long. Now here is light, all around us, and the air in my lungs burns to tell me that I am alive . . . how could I not rejoice in that?"

"Oh, I've no doubt that you do," Gimli said. "I don't know the why or the how of it, but it seems that you truly are better than you were, and for that I am glad. But we've been out here less than ten minutes and already you're making an excuse to hustle me back inside and out of the way."

Legolas turned to face him then, one eyebrow arched. "It is not an excuse. It is cold, and you are wet and growing wetter by the minute as that snow melts. I have seen how mortals can succumb to the elements."

Gimli snorted. "Now you really are trying my patience. Some Elves might believe that any mortal will up and die from a little chill, but you've traveled enough with me to know better. I'm not that frail, and you're not that ignorant, so why don't you quit this game and tell me what's really going on here?"

There was a pause. Legolas' shoulders sagged as if in defeat. "All right. Come back to the stable while I put Arod away. I will tell you there."

Gimli did not move. He folded his arms across his chest. "Why don't you just tell me now?"

Legolas smiled. "Elvellon, I _have _traveled with you. You may be hardy, but you are not invulnerable, and I have camped with you when you had a head cold. If I seek to take you to shelter and warmth now you may rest assured that it is not for your sake but for the sake of every other person who might be hoping to get some sleep in the citadel tonight."

Gimli shot him a look, but fell into step beside Legolas as he headed through the gateway. "Are you saying that I snore?"

"No, elvellon. I am saying that under normal circumstances, when you are fully healthy, you snore. What you do when you have a cold is beyond my ability to describe. Before meeting you the only previous experience I had with such a sound was when Smaug was still resident in the Lonely Mountain."

Gimli chose not to dignify this with comment.

"Just tell me this," he said as they entered the dim, musty warmth of the stable. "Has it returned?"

"Has what returned?"

"The sea-longing," Gimli said.

Legolas stopped in his tracks. "Why do you ask?"

"Aragorn said that it would come back when you were healed. So has it?"

Legolas did not answer for a moment. When at last he spoke it was with an effort, as though the words cost him something. "Not . . . as such."

"Then I was right. Your performance this morning notwithstanding, you are _not _fully healed, so you can stop pretending otherwise, thank you very much."

Legolas sighed. "Elvellon, you still carry a scar where Dragaer's sword pierced you. And though the wound is healed, it still pains you on some mornings. Do you imagine that my scars would be any different?"

Gimli blinked. "No, of course not. I didn't mean . . . I just thought, if Aragorn really did as much as you said . . ."

"Then the longing would return," Legolas finished for him. "Gimli, I do not know. There are others who have suffered the _delgurth_, but they all sailed, or faded. I have never heard of another who did as I did, and remained."

"By rejecting the Valar's call," Gimli said. "By giving up the sea."

"By turning the sea into a monster," Legolas said. "Aragorn faced that monster and allowed me to see it as it truly was. When I think of the sea it no longer hurts but . . ." he shook his head. "Where the longing was before, there is nothing. Just emptiness. The Valar's call is gone."

Arod blew a loud huff, nosing at Legolas' arm. Legolas turned. Laying a hand on the horse's neck he continued toward the far end of the barn. Gimli followed, chewing at the edge of his mustache.

He felt off-balance, as if the barn floor were canted a few degrees from level. It sounded as if Legolas was saying he was free to stay in Middle-earth, free of the conflict that had tormented him since Pelargir. As many times as Gimli had cursed those blasted gulls, he should be rejoicing now. And he would, except . . .

Except that Legolas sounded so sad.

"Well it's the middle of winter," Gimli said. "You can't expect to see any gulls now. I know, a trip to the seaside, that's what you need. That'll bring it back."

"Perhaps you are right," Legolas said. He ushered Arod into his stall. "It may return in time."

He stood a moment with his hand on the latch of the stall door, looking at the horse with empty eyes. When he next spoke it was so softly that Gimli almost missed it.

"Or it may be that it never will. Maybe that would be for the best."

1 _Daro hon. Abadertha im. _ Stay with him. I will return later.


	59. The Nature of Love

"One man in a thousand, Soloman says,

Will stick more close than a brother . . .

But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side

To the gallows-foot – and after."

– Rudyard Kipling

Chapter 58: The Nature of Love

Aragorn dunked his head again and again, sloshing the hot water over his neck and shoulders, the rivulets running from his hair into his eyes. He scrubbed frantically at his face and arms, trying to eradicate the feel of rough hands on his skin, the burn of an unwanted mouth against his own.

The steam rising from the wooden tub fogged the air and condensed in beaded droplets on the walls of the bath chamber. Aragorn lowered himself gingerly, biting his lip as the hot water contacted skin chafed raw. The smarting of his wrists and ankles was no worse than he expected, but as the water lapped his waist the deep-seated pain of torn inner tissues made him catch his breath. He held himself still, breathing carefully, as slowly the initial sting dulled to a low heat.

Picking up the cloth he thought again of how badly he had misjudged. Legolas had been right: he had not understood the true cost of what he planned. And he wondered: if he had understood, would he have been able to do it?

_Elven memory_, he thought. Perhaps that was the truth of the _delgurth, _and why so few Elves could survive it. It never ended, as Dragaer had said, but the assault was not merely in memory, not even in Elven memory. It was physical too. No wonder Legolas had been unable to heal.

_But he can heal now_, Aragorn thought with a touch of satisfaction. The price had been greater than anything he had imagined, but it was worth it. Though his heart might quail within him at the thought, he would pay it again without regret. At last Legolas could remain in Middle-earth, and live.

The only question was, would he?

Aragorn scraped the cloth swiftly over his legs and thighs, as though he could physically scrub away the bruises, to make it as though none of it had happened. He felt as if Dragaer's touch were a contaminant upon his skin, the Corsair's perverted lust like filth dissolving to befoul the hot water that lapped around him.

_That _thought sent him vaulting from the bath, snatching a towel from the rack that stood before the fire and wrapping it around himself. He dried himself quickly, ignoring the protests of strained muscles in his back and shoulders. The Chamberlain had laid out a clean tunic and leggings on a padded bench next to the wall. Aragorn put them on and felt marginally better.

A knock at the door made him turn. "Yes?"

Arwen entered, a stack of bandages folded over her arm and a basket in her hand. She paused on the threshold, casting an apprising glance over him. "The bath helped, then. Good." Setting her burdens down on the bench she faced him with a purposeful air. "Come. Sit."

Aragorn took a step backward. "Arwen, I'm fine."

"Even if that were true, those burns need attention," Arwen said. "Now I can do it myself, or I can call Ioreth and Lord Trypline to come do it for me. Your choice."

Aragorn weighed his options. The chief healer would be only too happy to attend the King, he knew, and would likely bring along his entourage of junior healers and nurses to assist him. He sat.

Arwen laid out her equipment: the cloths, a flask of wine, a small bowl and a flat box containing a pale green ointment. "There's no athelas to be found," she said, "but Lothíriel laid in a good supply of scratweed poultice last spring. I thought it would do."

She dipped a cloth in the wine and began to clean the abrasion on Aragorn's wrist. Aragorn hissed through his teeth and started to pull away, but she tightened her grip on his hand, holding him still.

"Stop it. You're a healer yourself."

"It hurts," Aragorn said.

"It's not that bad. What happened to the 'hardiest of rangers'?"

"He's had a bad day. He's tired."

"Baby." Arwen dabbed on the ointment and began to wrap a bandage around his wrist. Without looking up she said, "Do you think that it worked?"

It was a moment before Aragorn understood what she meant. "You saw Legolas," he said. "He's alert, talking – he even laughed."

"I saw," Arwen said. "Do you think that it worked?"

Aragorn fell quiet. In his mind's eye he saw again the knife plunging into the broken figure of his friend, the walls within Legolas' mind shattering.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I hope . . . that is, I think it did some good. He does not suffer now as he did before. Whether it was enough . . . I do not know."

Arwen tied off the bandage at his wrist and pulled his other hand forward. "What of the sea-longing? Will it return?"

Aragorn shook his head. "It's impossible to say. I tried . . ." He stopped, and then began again. "I had no idea how bad it was, how strong. When all that power was turned to pain . . . Valar, no wonder he could not sail."

The box of ointment slipped from Arwen's hand and clattered to the floor. She bent to pick it up, busying herself with fitting the lid back into place. When she spoke her voice was thin with the effort of control. "You experienced it all, then?"

Aragorn said nothing. Arwen glanced at him and then looked away, turning the box over in her hands. "Answer me, please. You were in his mind. Could he spare you none of it?"

"Arwen," Aragorn caught her hands, taking the box of ointment from her and setting it aside. "Listen to me. This was not by his choice. It is over. I am fine. Now let it go."

Arwen pulled away from him, rising and turning her back. She paced with quick strides to the fireplace and stood staring into the flames. Her hands were clenched into fists.

"Imagine," she said after a moment, her back still to him, "that our positions now were reversed, and I stood before you torn and bleeding and with the wounds still raw on my skin where I had been tied down and – and – and I told you to just _let it go_. _Think _of that, Aragorn. Is it nothing? Would you forget, and go on as if nothing were changed? _Really?_"

A vise seemed to tighten within Aragorn's chest at the image her words evoked, compressing his heart and lungs until he could hardly breathe.

"But it wasn't real," he whispered.

Arwen whirled on him. "Look at yourself, Aragorn! Look at what he did, and then tell me that it wasn't real!"

Aragorn sighed. "What else would you have had me do?" he said. "Should I have left Legolas as he was, when I alone could save him?"

"You didn't know that it would work. You still do not know."

"I knew that there was a chance," Aragorn said "Do you think that I could have lived with myself if I had not taken it?"

Arwen did not answer. Aragorn walked forward to face her. He took her hands in his. "I have been so blessed, with you and with our son. I cannot believe that you would wish me to live in peace while ignoring the suffering of the one most responsible for those blessings, the brother who saved me. There may be men who could do such a thing, but I am not one of them. And you would not have bonded with me if I were."

Arwen drew a shuddering breath, and her hands tightened on his. "I know," she said. "You are right, it is just . . . I cannot bear to see the one whom I love in such pain."

"I know," Aragorn said. He started to draw her close, but Arwen pulled back.

"Yes, you do," she said, and the expression in her eyes as she looked at him was unreadable. "You know exactly how I feel."

Aragorn blinked. Before he could think of what to say Arwen turned, and gathering her skirts she walked away. The wooden door thudded shut behind her.

*~*~*

Arwen walked. She had to move, she could not think: her mind was whirling with images and emotions that were too raw, too complicated to sort through now. Aragorn might know how she felt, but at the moment she herself was not too certain. Legolas lived, and she was glad for that, and Aragorn had survived, and she was relieved and thankful for that, but he was hurt, and that hurt had been done willfully, and she could not think now about what it all meant for him, for Legolas and for her.

Her restless steps carried her through the royal quarters, past the nursery where her son lay sleeping under his nurse's watchful eye, out into the main citadel. The servants were occupied with preparations for the next day's naming ceremony, and the public areas of the palace were filled with people cleaning, carrying ornately carved tables and chairs to the great hall, balancing on tall ladders to hang newly dusted and repaired tapestries. They stopped work and bowed as Arwen passed by. Several of her ladies-in-waiting were seated at a long table in the great hall, plaiting colored cords into streamers. They rose to follow when they saw her, but she waved them back to their places and kept going.

Even the citadel guards did not interfere as she passed them at the gates. One heavy-set Man did fall in unobtrusively behind her as she ran down the steps and out into the courtyard, but he kept a polite distance and Arwen paid him little heed.

The snow forced her to slow her pace. She could still move more easily than a human over deep snow, but it seemed to her that her steps had grown heavier since she had chosen mortality to bond with Aragorn. The cold too seemed to affect her more than it had once done, and she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering against the wind that blew from the west.

The groundskeepers had cleared a broad path from the citadel steps past the White Tree all the way to the sixth circle gate. Arwen followed this road, walking more slowly now, her breath smoking white in the crisp air. The sun was shining in a pale blue sky, throwing brilliant glitters from every surface. She could feel its feeble warmth against her back.

The snow was melting from the White Tree, soft clumps slipping from its slender branches one after another to plop onto the drift that covered its reflecting pool. Arwen stopped to watch, her breath coming more slowly as the pounding of her heart eased.

"He is worried about you."

There was no sound to mark the other's arrival, but Arwen did not startle. She turned her head. "You spoke with Aragorn?"

"Soon after you left," Legolas said. "He would have followed you, but I persuaded him to wait. I believe that you wish to speak with me."

Arwen nodded. Turning, she called to the guard who waited some distance away. "You may go. Lord Legolas will stand as my protector."

The Man did not seem much surprised. He bowed ponderously and retreated. When he had gone Arwen turned back to Legolas. "What of Gimli?"

"Curled up in his room with a change of clothes, a hot brick and a mug of ale," Legolas smiled. "Riding did not agree with him."

Arwen looked at him. Legolas' smile seemed perfectly natural, but there was something in his eyes that spoke otherwise. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth," Legolas said. "Or that of it which was mine to tell. I was dying. Aragorn healed me."

He paused then, and looked into her eyes. "And I told Gimli, Aragorn used the healing trance at a terrible cost, and took the injuries dealt to my mind and body into himself to save me. I told Gimli, I did not ask that of him. I would have stopped him, if I could."

"If you could," Arwen repeated. "It was your mind, your memory. Could you not block him?"

"Not without fighting him, no," Legolas said. "And even then I might not have succeeded. He was determined. And I was weary of fighting."

"But you knew what the healing trance meant," Arwen said. "You knew what he would do. If you did not want it then why did you go to him?"

Legolas fell silent. His eyes grew hooded, dark. Arwen looked away. The wind picked up, blowing loose strands of hair across her face. She shivered.

Legolas undid the fastening of his cloak, and then he was in front of her, drawing it around her shoulders. It felt impossibly light after her acclimation to mortal fabrics, but it was warm and she took it gratefully.

Legolas remained there after the cloak was secured, his fingertips resting just below the clasp. It was a moment before she could bring herself to meet his eyes.

"He ordered me," Legolas said, and his gaze was bleak. "And I swore an oath to obey."

Arwen stared at him. She processed what he meant, and her hands clenched as the anger bubbled up hot in her chest. "An oath? You swore an _oath?_ He was _raped_ – if he were an Elf he would be _dying_. You let that happen. You _made _it happen. You love him, but you cast that love aside because you swore an _oath?_"

Legolas' face was frozen into immobility, expressionless. "I am a warrior –"

"Èowyn was a warrior!" Arwen cried. "She broke her oath, once! She was sworn to stay in Meduseld, but she broke it to go to war. If she had not, the Witch-king would not have died! The War itself might have been lost!"

"– of Eryn Lasgalen," Legolas continued as if he had not heard. "Or I was, once. We do not swear ourselves lightly, and once sworn, we do not break faith."

"It was the _delgurth_, Legolas. It breaks all oaths, all bonds. That is what it does!"

"It breaks most bonds. Not this one."

"Why _not?_" Arwen demanded.

Legolas did not answer for a long moment. When finally he spoke his voice was soft, weighted with grief. "Because it was all I had left."

Arwen stared at him, breathing hard. "My mother was taken by Orcs," she said at last. "The bonds were broken – to me, to my brothers, to my father. We could not reach her. Even my father . . . Do you think that he tried any less than Aragorn did for you? But she sailed. She loved Middle-earth more than anything, but she sailed rather than bring him to that."

"I could not sail," Legolas said.

"You were one of the Nine Walkers," Arwen said. "You helped to save the _world._ Even without the Call, do you really think that the Valar would have turned you away?"

Legolas swallowed. "There was no healing for me there. I sold it at the first assault, as the price to survive in Middle-earth."

"_Why?_"

Legolas closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. Then he looked at her. "Your mother knew that one day your father would join her in Valinor. Then the bond could be remade. But Aragorn is mortal. When I sail, I will be losing him forever."

Arwen held his gaze, and slowly the anger leached away, leaving her cold and empty in its wake. "But he will die. In fifty years' time, in a hundred, he will die and you will have lost him in any case."

"I know," Legolas said. "But it will not happen by my choice."

Tears pricked Arwen's eyes, and she brushed them aside impatiently. "After everything he did to you," she said. "After everything that happened – how can you say that? How can you stay with him after all of that?"

"You stay with him," Legolas said.

"He is my husband," Arwen said. "What is he to you that you would give so much for him?"

"He is my friend," Legolas said.

Arwen blew out her breath in a ragged laugh. "Your friend! Your _friend_, Legolas? I have lived among Men, I am married to a Man and my son will be a Man, and I tell you that there is not one Man in a thousand who would understand a friendship like that."

"Aragorn is that Man," Legolas said. "And there is not one Elf in a thousand fortunate enough to truly know him." He paused then, studying her, and there was compassion in his eyes. "You understand that. You sent me to him because you understand it. But now . . . all this anger . . . what do you fear, my lady?"

A knot had constricted in Arwen's throat. It was a moment before she could speak. "I know that he loves me," she said. "But that love was not enough to keep him from Dragaer's snares, and it is not enough to keep him safe now. He obsessed over you, he attacked you, but he very nearly died today to save you."

She raised her hands as if she could somehow grasp hold of her tangled emotions and pull them into order. "It is mad, I know, but . . ." she swallowed hard. Her hands fell back to her sides.

"There are times," she said, "that I wish that he had come to me rather than to you. I might say it was because it would have spared you – but the truth is, I wish that he cared about me that much, that when Dragaer corrupted his heart his greatest desire was for me instead of you."

She looked away, fixing her eyes on the bare spread of the sapling's branches. Her face was hot.

There was a silence. Then Legolas took her hand.

"Did you not know," he said. "Dragaer's design was upon you from the first. He did everything in his power to turn Aragorn against you. But Estel guarded you too closely, and his love for you could not be corrupted. There was no power in this world that could make him hurt you."

Arwen stood still, listening. Her breath had stopped. Legolas stroked the back of her hand with his fingertips. "Your fear was also mine," he said. "But it is groundless. Aragorn _is _that one Man. He may be mortal, but he has an Elven heart."

"A heart that must be shared between us," Arwen whispered.

The movement of Legolas' fingers over her hand stopped. He stood motionless for a moment, and then he dropped her hand and took a step backward. Their eyes met.

"Do you want me to leave?" he said.

Arwen held his gaze. "Where would you go?"

"Does it matter?" Legolas shrugged. "Away. To Ithilien, most likely. There is work enough in the forest to keep me there. I could send a representative to Minas Tirith for state occasions, or Faramir might act as liaison. Of course there are times when the royal progress might pass through, but I would have to lead trade missions to Eryn Lasgalen, or Aglarond –"

"Stop it," Arwen said. "Just stop it. You're mocking me."

Legolas fell silent. Then he said, very quietly, "With respect, my lady, I am not. Forgive me if I cannot speak of this dispassionately – but I never intended to cause you pain. If you ask me to leave, I will."

Arwen bit her lip. The sun was lowering to the west, stretching their shadows over the field of white. The wind had died and all around was silence, as though the world were holding its breath.

"Why?" she said. "You've sworn no oath to me. What am I that you would do such a thing?"

Legolas looked surprised. "You are the Evenstar," he said.

Arwen shook her head impatiently. "The evening has come and gone for our people, Legolas. What do titles matter when Imladris and Lothlórien are splintered, and even the Havens are fading?"

Then she looked at him. "But when you say it there is another meaning. What is it?"

Legolas said nothing. Arwen sighed. "In any case I would not ask," she said. "You gave everything to save him, and he you. How could I stand between you now?" She reached up to touch his cheek. "I am sorry. This has been difficult for all of us, but I did not mean to doubt you." She smiled a little. "I love you."

Legolas caught her hand, smiling in return. "Now which of us is mocking," he said.

"I mean it," Arwen said. "You have ever been a friend and comfort to me. When I despaired you held fast, and when it seemed all hope was lost you brought him out of fear and darkness back to me. For that alone I would love you, if I did not already before."

Legolas stood very still. "My lady," he said at last. "Well do I know the place that I hold in your heart. I made my peace with it long ago, as you must now make your peace with the place that I hold in Aragorn's."

Arwen frowned. "What are you saying?"

"Nothing." Legolas looked away. "I am sorry. I did not mean to speak so. It is nothing."

"Tell me," Arwen said. "I have grown sick of half-truths. Just this once, Legolas, speak plainly. Tell me."

Legolas sighed. "I never have been able to refuse you anything. If now after all this time you would have me say it then . . ." he swallowed.

Turning to face her he took a deep breath. "Then I would say, my lady Undómiel, that you are the Evenstar, and there is not an Elf in Arda who does not love you. Do you imagine that I would be any different?"

Arwen swallowed. "You are not speaking in the abstract, I take it."

Legolas smiled a little. "No. I am not. But I accepted long ago that you would never be mine. When Estel told me that he –" he broke off, and shook his head. "I will not pretend that it was easy. Had it been any other man I could not have endured it. But Estel . . . I said before that I could not go to the Undying Lands because it would mean leaving him forever. But the full truth is that when I sail I will lose you both, and I cannot face that. Not yet."

Arwen swallowed, feeling her throat grow tight. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't know."

"Nor did he," Legolas said. "I would prefer to keep it that way, if we may. It has been seventy years. I have made my peace with it."

"But all this time," Arwen said. "Why did you not say anything?"

"What purpose would it have served? Your bond was foretold from the time of Lúthien – the Valar would not unwrite history because one Elf wished it." Then Legolas met her gaze, and his eyes softened. "I told you, I never intended to cause you pain. Revealing a love that you did not ask for and could not dissuade would do naught but cause grief for you and for Estel – the two people I most wanted to be happy."

Arwen looked at him in wonder. "You said that Aragorn was that one man in a thousand who could understand the love of an Elven heart. He may be that – but Legolas I think that you must be the only Elf in Arda whose heart could love so greatly as this."

Legolas smiled, a little sadly it seemed to her. "You did ask," he said. "But I would ask you now to let it be. You are his wife. We should speak no more of love."

Then he turned, and tucking her hand under his arm he started back toward the citadel. "Come. He should be waking before much longer, and he will want to see you."

Arwen felt dazed. It was all too much for her to grasp. But she caught his last statement and clung to it as a light out of the shifting fog around her.

Hurrying to match his stride, holding her skirts up with one hand she said, "You do not think that he actually slept?"

"I know that he did," Legolas said. He also seemed relieved to speak of more ordinary things. "He was sleeping when I left."

"You said that he was worried about me!"

"He was," Legolas said. "He was also exhausted, injured, and in desperate need of rest. And I had need to speak with you undisturbed."

"But he – you – how did you . . .?"

"I put a sleeping draught in his drink," Legolas said. He saw the expression on her face and smiled. "What? Turn-about is fair play, is it not?"


	60. In Redemption's Wake

"'Come in,' she said, 'I'll give you

Shelter from the storm.'"

– Bob Dylan

Chapter 59: In Redemption's Wake

Aragorn awoke slowly, gradually becoming aware of the feel of softness beneath him and the weight of a quilt over him, the smell of wood smoke and wool and the sound of people talking in low voices nearby. He lay quiet, allowing these sensations to percolate through his muzzy consciousness.

"The most important thing is to treat him normally," a voice was saying. "Displays of sympathy or sorrow will not help him. He is a warrior wounded in battle, and should be treated as such."

"But how was he wounded?" a second voice asked. "I still do not understand how it happened."

"A consequence of the healing techniques he used," the first voice answered. "This fight was waged with weapons of mind and spirit, but the injuries were dealt physically as well."

Legolas. That was Legolas speaking. Aragorn thought to roll onto his side but stopped abruptly as the muscles of his back protested. That was a lesson learned: when he moved he hurt. When he lay still the hurt went away. Lying still seemed to be his best option.

"It is the nature of those injuries that concern me at the moment," a new voice broke in. That was Arwen. Aragorn gave up the idea of moving and concentrated on opening his eyes.

"The four of us here are the only ones who now know the truth. Faramir, can you keep it that way?"

There was a pause. Through the hiss and crackle of the fire Aragorn discerned a small tapping sound, as of someone drumming his fingers on a table. "I can assume most of the King's duties at the Council," Faramir said at last. "Between the two of us, my lady, we should be able to divert suspicion for a few days at least. But there are some things for which he will have to appear in public. The celebration tomorrow, for instance."

"As for that, I have an idea," Arwen said. "As long as we keep a safe distance the public eye should not be a problem. It is the court gossip that worries me."

"I will do my best, but we may not be able to avoid it," Faramir said. "I am sorry, Your Majesty, but even courtiers have eyes. They know that something transpired between Elessar and Lord Legolas. Remember that he confessed at the trial to harming one of the Firstborn. They saw Legolas return here, and even the most ignorant could see that he was dying. Now they will see him apparently recovered, and at the same time Elessar is injured, even to having the same bandages about his wrists . . ." he trailed off.

"What are you saying, lad?" That was Gimli. Aragorn recognized the warning growl in his voice. He redoubled his efforts to open his eyes.

"There are many in Minas Tirith who are still ignorant of the Eldar," Faramir said. "Superstition and prejudice are rife, and people are prone to invent all manner of stories to explain that which they do not understand. There could be trouble."

"Ha!" Gimli said. "I'd like to see them try."

"I would not," Faramir said. "The safest thing would be for Legolas to leave the city for a time, at least until Aragorn has healed."

This continued weakness was beginning to worry Aragorn. Images were filtering back to him, memories that gave reason for the soreness of his muscles but did not explain the dryness of his mouth or why his eyelids felt as though they had been sealed with calking paste. Something else was going on.

"No," Arwen said.

"It is for his own safety," Faramir said. "There have always been legends of the magical powers of the Elves, and then they saw King Thranduil's retribution on the Corsairs –"

"I understand," Arwen said. "But that is not an option. Were Legolas to leave now it would only give fodder to the Men who spread those stories. And more to the point, Aragorn needs Legolas here."

"My lady," Legolas began.

"Don't argue, Legolas," Arwen said. "You know it's true."

"It is not that," Legolas said mildly. "I was only going to say, he is awake."

There was a scraping of chairs being pushed back and the sound of footsteps. A cool, long-fingered hand took gentle hold of Aragorn's. _Arwen_. With a last effort Aragorn finally won the battle to open his eyes. He turned his head toward her, blinking as her face swam into focus. She was smiling.

"How do you feel?"

Aragorn ran his tongue over cracked lips. His mouth felt fuzzy. "I've been better," he admitted. His voice was weak.

"Here, my lord." A strong hand touched his shoulder. Aragorn shrank from the contact. As his vision cleared to take in the rest of the room, however, the initial impulse to flee faded. There was no attacker, only Arwen at his right side and Faramir at his left, and Gimli studying him from the foot of his bed with lowered brows. The Steward was holding a glass of water out to him.

"Thank you," Aragorn whispered, propping himself up on one elbow to drink. He handed the cup back to Faramir and looked around. "Legolas?"

"I am here, Estel." And so he was, leaning against a far corner by the fireplace with his arms folded. Aragorn had the impression that he had not moved during the commotion that had followed his announcement. But it was not until he spoke that Aragorn saw him.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

Gimli snorted loudly at that, but made no further comment. Aragorn smiled. "You mean, 'no, but you will be all right someday.'"

There was a pause. Then Legolas said, very quietly, "Yes."

"Someday soon," Aragorn said. He looked at Legolas, standing poised and alert in his worn green and brown tunic with his hair tied back in archer's braids, and his grin broadened. He felt absurdly happy.

"Excuse me, King Elessar, Queen Undómiel," Faramir said. "By your leave, I have work to do before the morrow."

"Wait," Aragorn said. He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to think past the cobwebs that fogged his brain. "Wait. What were you saying about Legolas leaving?"

Faramir hesitated. "I was suggesting that Lord Legolas might consider returning to Ithilien for a few weeks until Your Majesty has recovered. There are Men in this city who still harbor prejudices about the Elves, and may interpret your injuries as evidence of some sort of black magic done in vengeance against you. There is a danger that some of them might attempt an attack in return."

"After everything that he did for them," Gimli said. "And after Thranduil's army saved their necks too. Well, let them try. They'll have to get past me first."

Aragorn was silent for a moment. Gimli's bravado aside, at least one Man _had _managed to get past him before. Faramir was right: the prudent thing was to avoid the risk. For Legolas' own safety he should go. But . . . images were forming in Aragorn's mind, of Legolas' knife work in the training arena, of Legolas effortlessly lifting Dragaer by the throat into midair. If it did come to a fight Aragorn somehow did not think that it would be the Elf who would need protecting.

Still his voice caught in his throat, and he had to swallow hard before turning to Legolas. "Do you want to leave?"

Legolas looked from him to Faramir, and then to Gimli, and finally to Arwen. He held her gaze for a long moment before he turned back to Aragorn.

"Not yet," he said at last. "I will stay."

Aragorn exhaled in relief. Arwen smiled and Gimli beamed, bouncing a little on his toes.

Faramir frowned. "We could assign a guard for your protection."

"No," Legolas said.

"Unnecessary," Aragorn said. "Faramir, I understand your concern, but in this case I really think it unwarranted. I have every confidence in Legolas' ability to take care of himself."

Faramir looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Now that is a change," he murmured. "Very well then, my lord. It will be as you say." He bowed, and then paused. "There is one other thing. As yet my lady Éowyn knows nothing of this. Should I tell her?"

There was a silence. Aragorn thought of what that conversation would mean, of Faramir going to the Steward's chambers and closing the door and saying to Éowyn, "There is something I must tell you, about Aragorn . . ." His heart beat faster, and his stomach tightened. He looked down, avoiding Faramir's eyes.

"Does she need to know?" Arwen said at last.

"Not need, exactly, no," Faramir said. "But there are matters which yet weigh upon her heart, for which she has not forgiven Elessar. You know that she is a loyal subject, but she does not love the King as she once did."

"And you think that telling her this will change that?" Arwen said.

"That he willingly suffered the worst that the enemy could inflict, mentally and physically, to save another? Of course. How could it not?"

Aragorn's throat was dry. He looked at Legolas. The Elf was standing with head bowed, arms folded as he stared at the floor. There was a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

Aragorn took a breath. "I did nothing more than anyone would have done. I did not do it to buy pardon from her or anyone else. And it does not change what I did to her and to you, Faramir. She has no reason to forgive me, and I will not ask her to."

"But –" Faramir began.

"Enough," Arwen said. "It may be, Faramir, that she will deduce some of it on her own. She also has experience with the King's healing, remember. But the specifics of what happened are personal to Aragorn and to Legolas. Let us leave it there."

Faramir sighed. "As you wish, my lady. Then if you will excuse me, there are duties to which I must attend."

As the door clicked shut behind him Gimli rocked back on his heels, surveying Aragorn thoughtfully. "Well," he said after a moment. "Maybe you didn't do it to buy anything, but . . . I don't reckon there're many that would have stuck it through the way that you did either. Not from what I've seen. So for myself I'd say you did good, lad."

Aragorn flushed. "It does not change what happened before."

"No," Gimli agreed. "It doesn't." There was a pause. Then Gimli paced around to the side of the bed. Closing the distance between them, he lowered his voice. "Listen to me, Aragorn son of Arathorn. There's nothing you can do that will take back what happened to him. That's a fact. But while you're busy tearing yourself apart because of everything you did, remember that you saved him too. Maybe it isn't enough. Maybe nothing can ever be enough. But he's alive now, and he will get better, because of you. So thank you. From one Elf-friend to another, I thank you."

He held out his hand. Aragorn blinked. He looked at Gimli, and then glanced aside to where Legolas and Arwen were politely feigning deafness. He turned back to meet Gimli's deep-set eyes and swallowed.

"Thank you," he said. With an effort he clasped Gimli's arm. Gimli returned his grip, and then suddenly pulled Aragorn forward into a swift, one-armed hug. Fire shot through the abused muscles of Aragorn's back, but before he could do anything Gimli released him and punched his shoulder cheerfully.

"Right, so that's settled," he said. "Now it's late, and you've a big day tomorrow. We'd best get off to bed."

Aragorn smiled, trying to ignore the prickling behind his eyes. Valar, what was wrong with him? He was far too emotional, feeling as if he could laugh or cry at any moment. In addition to that he was still groggy, his senses dulled and his thoughts clouded. It was almost as if . . .

"Just a moment," he said. "Where's my medicine pack?"

Legolas straightened. "Gimli is right. We should go."

"I had it in the study," Aragorn said. "It was right . . ." he stopped. His pack was sitting on top of the large trunk that contained his hunting clothes. It was open.

"Not as if you'll sleep anyway," Gimli said, going to join the Elf. "You'll be off singing to the stars or some such, if I know you."

"You say that as if it were a bad thing."

Aragorn looked around. His cup was on the table next to the bed. He snatched it up, ignoring the twinge of his shoulder as he did so, and ran his finger along the rim. A thin film of oil came away on his skin. He sniffed it, and then touched his finger to his tongue.

"Legolas!"

Legolas stopped halfway to the door. "Yes, Aragorn?"

"This is derivative of poppy! You put a sleeping draught in my drink!"

"Don't be silly," Arwen said. "The strain must be catching up to you. You are weary –"

"I am not weary, I've been drugged!" Aragorn said.

Legolas and Arwen exchanged a look. Then Legolas shrugged. "It was better than the alternative," he said.

"What alternative?" Aragorn said.

"The alternative of not drugging you," Legolas said.

"_What?_" Aragorn was perilously close to screaming. "What does that mean?"

"You'll find out," Legolas said.

*~*~*

Aragorn did. When he awoke the next morning it was with a clear head. He had scarcely a moment to wonder why he felt so awful, and then the memories hit in a searing flood. Dragaer. The ropes. The bed.

He rolled onto his side, retching dryly. But Arwen was there, rubbing his back as he heaved, and when the spasms passed she helped him to sit up and gave him water to soothe his throat.

After another scalding bath he felt a bit better, able to dress and to go out, at least, without feeling the constant taint of disgust on his skin. He was still wretched and miserable, sunk in a black depression that lifted only when Arwen joined him with their son in her arms.

The naming day was a tradition that pre-dated Gondor. It stretched back to a time before the fall of Númenor. Some said that it had been taken from the Elves. Others said that it came from the Dwarves. But regardless of the source, it was dear to the people's hearts and could not be put aside no matter how ill the King might be feeling at the time.

Aragorn knew this. He had to take his place, to wear the heavy crown and to wave to the throngs who crowded close behind the restraining guards, calling good wishes or asking for blessings. In the end he simply took a strong infusion of willow bark and mint and gave thanks that the seats of the royal carriage were well cushioned.

By common consent the first six days of an infant's life were kept private, a personal time for the family to bond and, though few would have said this aloud, time enough to see if the baby would live. But the seventh day was a day of public celebration, when the newest member of the community was welcomed and called by his official name.

Among the common folk it was a simple affair, for the peasants might live and work their entire lives with the same people in the same few square miles of land. Often the name was already known, and the naming celebration devolved into the practice of 'wetting the baby's head' – which was largely an excuse for the men to drink themselves into a stupor with toasts to the new family at the village pub.

For the Prince of Gondor, it was something different.

The royal procession stretched nearly a mile long. Every lord and lady of Gondor was there, escorted by all the footmen, pages and manservants that money could hire. They rode on champion bred horses draped in rich cloth, in coaches and carriages polished to a shine with the family's crest upon the door. Every nobleman was preceded by a liveried guard with the traditional weapon of his house – great swords seven feet long, impossible to fight with but impressive for display. Every lady was decked in jewels, fortunes of diamond and gold and sapphire heirlooms that in some cases had been carted for days across the hills and plains of Gondor to Minas Tirith.

All of Minas Tirith turned out. The inns and taverns of the city had been filled days before with merchants, farmers and pilgrims drawn from villages all across the country. Looking at them all, Aragorn thought that half the kingdom must have come. They were waiting before the dawn, packing the snowy streets so closely that the city's soldiers were hard-pressed to clear a path wide enough for the carriages to pass.

In the end the ceremony was worth the people's wait. The new Prince was carried sleeping in the Steward's arms into the great marble throne room, with the King and Queen and all their attendants in solemn procession behind him. The noble lords and ladies took their places in the great hall while the King and Queen climbed up to the high thrones, and if the King hesitated fractionally upon the steps, the sweat breaking upon his upper lip, no one watching noticed. Every eye was fixed upon the bundle in Lord Faramir's arms as he turned to face the crowd. No one saw the Queen take Elessar's hand, her fingers twining with his. No one saw Elessar's eyes close, his breath coming swift and short as they sat down upon the twin thrones.

No Man saw, that is. In a darkened recess half-hidden by a massive statue of one of Gondor's ancient kings, Legolas leaned one arm against the statue's base, frowning as he stared up at the high thrones. At his side, Gimli shifted his weight, keeping one eye on Legolas and one eye on the crowd. Since Faramir's warning he had been on alert for any signs of hostility toward the Elf, but the people around them were all intent on the ceremony up front. No one took any notice of him or Legolas.

Above them Faramir stepped forward and raised the infant Prince in his arms. "People of Gondor," he cried, "I give to you Eldarion son of Elessar, heir of Elendil and of Isildur, Crown Prince of the Reunified Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor!"

A roar went up from the watching crowd. Trumpets pealed, and the great bells of Minas Tirith rang in joyous answer. Eldarion woke with a howl of protest, his face reddening as his tiny fists waved in the air. The people laughed. Arwen hurried down from the high throne, her skirts flying behind her as she rushed to take her son back from the Steward.

Gimli smiled. He turned to make a comment to Legolas, but the words died on his lips. Legolas was frowning more deeply than ever.

"Eldarion," he muttered, and turned away.

"What?" Gimli said, but Legolas was striding along the wall, skirting the edge of the crowd that pressed in toward the dais.

"What?" Gimli said again, hurrying after him. Legolas did not look back. He was nearly at the great doors, striding with head down, his cloak billowing in his wake, and Gimli had to break into a run to catch him.

"Durin's beard, Elf, what is it?"

But Legolas did not answer.

*~*~*

Two hours later the sun was sinking toward the western hills, bringing a close to the short winter day. The citadel blazed with light that spilled from every window and out the massive doors down into the courtyard.

Aragorn managed to stand through the salute to the West, and the formal cup-sharing that began the feast. As the company sat down again Arwen remained in a conference with Faramir and Éowyn. They spoke only briefly before she left them to take her place beside Aragorn. When he looked at her questioningly she smiled and leaned over to whisper in his ear, "Follow my lead."

It was a night to remember. The long trestle tables groaned under the weight of platter after platter of roast pork, beef, and leg of lamb, tureens of soups and stews and mounds of cabbage, squash and leeks from the winter gardens. Aragorn took a bowl of onion soup and averted his eyes from the rest of the table. The sight and smell of so much food at once made him feel vaguely ill.

He spent the meal scanning the crowd. There had been no sign of Legolas at the ceremony that afternoon, and it was not very surprising that he was absent now: he had never had much tolerance for the noise and heat of mortal celebrations. But Aragorn could not believe that he would miss Eldarion's naming day entirely.

Finally the last course was served: a massive cake sculpted in the shape of Minas Tirith, with tiers and bridges delicately wrought in white icing and windows of marzipan. The last plate and knife were scraped clean and the long trestle tables were pushed back to the sides of the hall. Aragorn's heart quickened. As the minstrels struck up a lively tune he shot Arwen a panicked glance. He had through dint of determination and strong tea managed to make it through the meal. Dancing was entirely beyond him.

But although the people were turning expectantly to look up at the head table, Arwen made no effort to rise. Instead she leaned forward, covering her eyes with her hand. Before Aragorn could ask what was wrong Faramir was at their side.

"Your Majesty? Are you well?"

"Oh, yes," Arwen said faintly. "I am tired, that is all."

"It's been a long day. You should rest," Faramir said. He looked at Aragorn. "By your leave, King Elessar, Lady Éowyn and I will lead the first dance in your stead."

"What?" Aragorn said. "Oh, yes, by all means."

Faramir bowed and withdrew. Éowyn was already waiting for him at the far end of the dais. Aragorn knew from his first sight of her that Faramir had kept their secret. She had grown less overtly hostile over the months since the Corsairs' defeat, but there remained a cool edge to her courtesy toward him. She and Faramir divided their time between Ithilien and Dol Amroth these days, and were rarely seen in Minas Tirith.

Aragorn was still looking after them in bemusement when Arwen touched his arm. "Come," she said. "Escort me back to our rooms. I feel faint."

The lords and ladies seated around the table hastened to bow as they stood. Below them a growing number of couples were following Faramir and Éowyn onto the dance floor, while others were still gazing curiously up toward the King and Queen.

Aragorn took her elbow to guide her out the King's Door. "You've never fainted in your life."

"True," Arwen murmured. Then as they passed into the relative privacy of the corridor she looked at him and winked. "But they do not know that."

Aragorn laughed, feeling the last clouds of depression lift. Later, cradling a cup of tea in a chair near the fire of their private sitting room, he watched as Arwen held Eldarion to her breast. _My wife_, he thought with the sense of wonder that never faded. _My son and my wife._

Arwen looked up at him. "What is it? You're smiling."

"Am I?" Aragorn grinned. "I was just thinking of how well you managed us all back there. I'm glad that you're on our side."

Arwen smiled back, shifting Eldarion to the other breast. "About that, I've been thinking. I'd like to take a diplomatic envoy to Harad."

Aragorn choked on his tea. "You? You are not serious."

"I'm perfectly serious," Arwen said. "Not immediately, but after Eldarion is weaned."

"It's not safe," Aragorn said. "Valar, can you imagine what would happen if they got hold of the Queen of Gondor?"

"I would not be going alone," Arwen said. "I would have an escort. You could even come with me if you like."

Aragorn fell silent. She had handled the Corsairs, and Valar knew that she could take care of herself, but still his whole being revolted at the thought of his wife exposed to such danger.

"We'll think about it," he said at last. "All right?"

"It's perfectly all right," Arwen said. She smiled impishly at him. "As I said, I'll wait until Eldarion is weaned, so that gives you plenty of time to think about it before I go."

Aragorn was trying to come up with a response to that when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

The Chamberlain entered and bowed. "Lords Legolas and Gimli to see you, Your Majesty."

Aragorn set down his tea. "Show them in."

Gimli was muttering under his breath as he entered. He paused briefly to bow to Arwen, and at her invitation crossed to the chair next to Aragorn and flopped down in it. He hooked a thumb back over his shoulder at Legolas, who remained in the doorway. "You talk to him. See if you can get any sense out of him."

Aragorn looked up. Legolas was standing very still, his face taut with some suppressed emotion. "You wanted to see me, Legolas?"

"If I may," Legolas said. His voice was calm, but Aragorn could hear the control that kept it so. "I would speak with you privately, my lord."

Aragorn stood up. As he passed behind Arwen's chair he stopped and bent down to whisper in her ear. "This is not over. If I have to I'll get you with child again to keep you here."

Arwen tilted her face up, smiling at him. "I'd like to see you try," she said.

"Now that's a promise," Aragorn said. He kissed her and then straightened to follow Legolas from the room.

Legolas crossed the entranceway and turned down the hall to the bedchamber. He did not stop there, but led the way through the darkened room and out the door onto the balcony. Following him, Aragorn paused to get his cloak from the wardrobe. Legolas had evidently meant it when he said that he intended this conversation to be private, but why, why, _why _was it that for an Elf that always had to mean going outside in the dead of a winter night?

As the door closed behind them Legolas turned to face him, his breath frosting in the chill air. "What did she tell you?"

Aragorn blinked. "What did who tell me?"

"Do not play games with me, Aragorn. I told you once before, Arwen is bonded to you."

Aragorn shook his head to clear it. He felt as though he had stumbled into the middle of this conversation and there was some key element of it that he was missing. "Of course we're bonded. What does that have to do with anything?"

"I never touched her," Legolas said. "Never. But you continue these baseless accusations –"

"Accusations?" Aragorn stared at him. "What accusations?"

"I let you inside my _mind. _You know more of me than any other living being, both that of which I can speak, and that of which I cannot. And now after all we've been through you still believe me capable of that?"

"Capable of _what?_" Aragorn shouted. "Morgoth's balls, Legolas, what are you talking about?"

"Eldarion." They turned. The balcony door had opened, and Arwen was there with the baby in her arms. Gimli stood beside her.

"It means 'son of the Elves,' doesn't it?" Gimli said. "Fine name, I thought. Of course 'Khazadson' would be even better, but maybe next time."

"My lady," Legolas spoke quietly, but with an intensity that Aragorn had rarely heard from him before. The anger was still very near the surface. "I have never before known you to intrude when privacy was requested."

"I am sorry, my lord," Arwen said. "But your voices carried. And I could not remain silent when by speaking I might prevent such words as should not be said."

"What words?" Aragorn's head was beginning to ache. "What is going on?"

"There was a concern," Arwen said. "That some Men, ignorant of the ways of the Elves, might . . . misinterpret Eldarion's name."

Aragorn looked at her for a long moment while this sank in. "But before, that was Dragaer, not me. Legolas, you cannot possibly think that I would suspect you and Arwen . . ."

"What, then?" Legolas' voice was clipped.

"I meant it to honor you!" Aragorn said. "Legolas, were it not for you I would not be here today. Were it not for you Dragaer's scheme would have succeeded. Minas Tirith would be destroyed, and we would likely be dead. Eldarion would not have been born. In every way then he _is _a child of the Elves, and his name will stand in Gondor's history as a testament to all that your people did for us – to all that you did for me."

There was a silence. The crisp night air carried the distant sound of drums from the great hall, where the celebration was still going strong. Overhead the stars spread their hard brilliance across the sky. The blood was thrumming in Aragorn's ears.

Finally Legolas spoke. "I am sorry. I did not . . . of course you would know better than that. I have not been thinking clearly, these past few days. Forgive me."

Aragorn released a long breath in relief. "After everything that has happened, I can hardly blame you for assuming the worst of Men. Eru knows that after the past few days I'm rather inclined to think that way myself."

Legolas looked at him. "I have seen the worst of Men," he said. "These past few days have shown me the best."

He reached up to clasp Aragorn's shoulder. Wordlessly Aragorn returned the gesture, swallowing hard against the tightness of his throat.

Gimli harrumphed. "Well then, that's settled. Now can we go inside? My feet are freezing."

"A moment," Arwen said. "Legolas, do you not want to see your namesake?"

Legolas blinked. "I do not know . . ."

"Here," Arwen held the bundled infant out to him. Deprived of his mother's warmth, Eldarion began to squirm, the corners of his mouth turning down. Legolas moved hastily to take him, cradling the baby awkwardly against his chest.

"Like this," Arwen said. "Support his head here, and put your other arm here, that's it."

"I do not think this is wise," Legolas said, but Arwen stepped back, and he was left holding Eldarion in his arms.

It was a sight to behold. Aragorn, who was far more accustomed to seeing his friend with bow or blades in his hands, tried to remember if he had ever seen Legolas look so . . . domestic. Gimli was smirking openly as he watched.

Legolas shot them both a look, as though daring them to say anything. Eldarion's face worked, his small brow furrowing, and then he opened his eyes. Legolas looked down. For a long moment they regarded each other in silence, the Elven warrior and the infant mortal Prince. Then Eldarion's face split in a wide, toothless grin. Wriggling one arm free of his blanket, he reached toward a dangling lock of Legolas' hair.

Arwen stepped forward. "Do you want me to take him?"

"No," Legolas said softly. He did not take his eyes from Eldarion's face. "No, it is all right. I have him."

Then he stiffened, inhaling sharply. Aragorn's first thought was that this was due to Eldarion, who with a coo of triumph had finally managed to seize hold of Legolas' hair. But Legolas was turning to look out over the balcony railing, over the night-darkened courtyard and the flicker of the city lights out to the far distant bulk of the western hills.

"Do you hear it?" Legolas said.

"Hear what?" Gimli asked.

"The sea," Legolas' eyes were wide, his breath coming swift and shallow. "The song of the sea."

Aragorn exchanged a look with Arwen. Gimli spun on his heel, scanning the horizon. "But there aren't any gulls! It's the middle of winter – it's _night time_ for Mahal's sake. There's nothing there!"

"There is the sea." Legolas' face was filled with wonder. "And hope in the son of Elves and Men. After all this time . . . I am not forsaken after all."

There was a pause. Aragorn held his breath. Legolas' eyes were kindled with an inner light and he stood tall, his face turned toward the west. He looked strong and sure and beautiful, as Aragorn had lost hope of ever seeing him again.

Aragorn felt a fierce joy at the sight. But crowding close behind was the realization of what it meant, and with that came a wealth of mixed emotions: hope, and fear, and gladness and sorrow all at once. He looked down, fighting to hide his reaction.

_He has already seen the worst of Men, _he thought. _Of course he will go. He should go. He has no reason now to stay. _

A sense of loss threatened to overwhelm him at the thought, the portending grief like a cavern opening in his chest.

"Does this mean you'll be sailing, then?" Gimli spoke with studied casualness, but Aragorn heard the hairline fracture of his voice that bespoke of a wealth of emotion no less than his own.

Legolas did not answer. Aragorn wondered if he had heard. He was still staring into the night, Eldarion seemingly forgotten in his arms.

"Well," Gimli said, bracing his hands on his hips. "All right then. Just you remember this: our agreement still stands. I go with you. Got that? Legolas? I mean it. You just try running off without me. I'll string you up by your pointy ears. I'll –"

"Gimli." Legolas spoke without turning his head. "I remember. I . . . have not decided yet."

"Whatever you decide, it is your choice," Arwen said. "We will stand with you, and be grateful for your time with us, however long it may be."

Legolas turned then, holding her gaze in silence. Then he looked at Gimli. Gimli cleared his throat. "Aye, well," he said. "It's up to you, of course."

Legolas smiled a little. "Elvellon," he said. "With all that has happened, I do not know if I ever thanked you. For saving my life . . . for everything. Thank you."

Gimli looked embarrassed. "Eh," he said. "It's of no matter. Not that it was easy – Durin's beard, the trouble I go to for one bleeding Elf, but . . . never mind. You were worth it."

Legolas' smile broadened. Gimli looked away. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Aragorn could have sworn that he was blushing.

Finally Legolas turned to Aragorn.

Aragorn swallowed. "_Mellon nin_ –" he began, and the words choked off in his throat.

Legolas leveled a searching look at him, until finally Aragorn mustered his courage and met the Elf's eyes. For a moment Legolas seemed to see straight through him, and he felt himself, all his strengths, inadequacies and weaknesses, all his successes and failures laid bare before that frankly assessing gaze. Then one corner of Legolas' mouth curved up, and the piercing look left his eyes.

"_Mellon nin_," he agreed.1

He looked away, back toward the hills that were visible as black mounds against the star-strewn sky.

"Círdan will give you a ship now," Gimli said softly.

"I know," Legolas said.

He looked down at the baby he still held against his chest. Eldarion had stuffed one fist full of Legolas' hair into his mouth and was gumming it happily. Legolas traced the curve of one plump cheek with his forefinger and then looked back up at the hills.

He took a deep breath. "The sea will still be there," he said. "In a day, a week, a hundred years of Men. The Valar's promise will not be lost to me. I know that now and . . . it can wait awhile longer."

1 _Mellon nin: _my friend


	61. Darkness Into Light

". . . But nobler is his spirit than the understanding of [evil]."

– Legolas, _The Last Debate_

Chapter 60: Darkness Into Light

Spring came early to Minas Tirith that year. By the end of February the snow had mostly gone save for a few scattered patches that clung to the north shadows of the city walls. The mud of the Pelennor fields was covered by a light haze of green, and new shoots were pushing up through the cracks in the city paving stones. Some of the trees in the lowest levels had already blossomed, while the unopened buds swelling along the branches of the White Tree and the other saplings in the upper levels told of more to come.

The day of the New Year dawned clear and cool. The swift-rising sun quickly burned off the mist from the fields and promised real warmth before the day was done. In the Royal Chambers Arwen pushed the windows open wide, allowing the green-scented air to pour through the rooms.

The birds were singing in the eaves and gardens of the city. Arwen paused in the King's study, leaning out over the sill to listen. From this vantage point she could see over the expanse of the courtyard lawn, past the encircling walls and the roofs of the lower levels, out to where a horse and two riders were picking their way through the fields toward the city.

A noise behind her made her turn her head. "He is coming," she said.

"Good," Aragorn said. He came up behind her, lightly encircling her waist with his arms as he looked over her shoulder.

Arwen rested her hands on his, enjoying the solid warmth of his chest against her back. "Gimli is with him."

Aragorn chuckled, his breath teasing her ear. "I do not need your eyes to tell me that. If ever Legolas goes anywhere _without _Gimli, now, that will be news."

His tone was light, but Arwen felt compelled to defend against the self-recrimination that she knew lay beneath the surface, his unspoken belief of why Gimli was still dogging Legolas' footsteps on this visit, to this city.

"It is the sea-longing," she said. "I do not think he yet trusts Legolas not to abandon us and sail the next time a strong breeze blows in from the West."

"Mmm," Aragorn said. He gave her a last squeeze and released her. "We will see."

"The truth is, elvellon, you enjoy it."

"I? _I?_ You're the one who frightened that poor guard at the gate. I'll bet you scared half an inch off that boy's growth."

Arwen heard Legolas and Gimli coming while they were still in the corridor outside the Royal Chambers. She exchanged a look with Aragorn, smiling.

"You were the one holding the axe."

"Och, I wouldn't have used it."

"Did he know that?"

"Doesn't matter. I doubt he even noticed, what with you staring at him like that."

Arwen wondered idly if they were aware of how their voices carried through the marble halls. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they did it deliberately. It could be that Legolas and Gimli got along in perfect harmony when they were alone, and only ever argued for the benefit of outsiders. But somehow she doubted it.

"I told you before, Gimli, the bow of Galadriel –"

"– does not wait in a guardsman's shack in the rain, yes, I know, I know. But in case you hadn't realized, Legolas, _it isn't raining._"

There was a knock at the door, and the Chamberlain entered. "Lords Legolas and Gimli to see you, Your Majesties." He sounded resigned.

Gimli entered first, bowing low when he saw her. His hair was still damp from his bath, braided in a thick queue down his back. "My lady. You look more lovely with every day."

"Lord Gimli," Arwen said. "Lord Legolas. It is good to see you again."

Legolas bowed. "Queen Undómiel. _Gîl síla erin lû govaded vîn__."__1_

Arwen clung to her smile, but a knot was beginning to form inside her stomach. "So formal, Legolas?"

"My lady," Legolas said. He looked as if he would say more, but stopped. Instead he turned to Aragorn. "I bring greetings from King Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen. He wishes to express his gratitude to the King of Gondor and Arnor, and he invites you and your people to celebrate with us in the Greenwood on Midsummer's Day."

"I am honored," Aragorn said. Arwen frowned. It wasn't just Legolas. Aragorn's manner was also too stiff, too formal. She could feel the screen of protocol come down like a protective wall between them. But she did not know how to breach it, or even if she should. "Please convey our thanks to the Elvenking. We are humbled to accept his invitation, a privilege bestowed upon few of the race of Men."

"There is something else," Legolas said. "He also sends this, a small token of thanks."

He drew out a long, flat box and extended it to Aragorn. Aragorn took it, glancing at him questioningly. But Legolas' face betrayed nothing.

Aragorn opened the lid and froze, his eyes widening. Arwen, looking over his shoulder, gasped. "Is that . . .?"

"It is," Aragorn said. He lifted the chain of emerald and silver links, holding it up so that she could touch it. It was heavy, though it had been forged in the likeness of silver and green leaves so delicately wrought that they were translucent in places. It was worn over the shoulders, and where the chain clasped on the chest there was the likeness of an oak tree fashioned of silver, with tiny diamonds woven like stars among its branches.

"The ruling chain of the House of Oropher," Aragorn breathed. "Legend says that it was made before the sundering of the kindred, by the hand of Celebrimbor himself." He looked up. "You cannot mean to give me this!"

"The Elvenking gives it in gratitude for the life of a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen," Legolas said. He raised one eyebrow. "It would be unwise to refuse him."

Aragorn swallowed. "I know, but really . . ."

"That cannot have been a decision he made lightly," Arwen said. "Some in the court must have opposed him."

"Oh aye," Gimli said cheerfully. "There was a near riot in the council room, you should have seen it."

"But my father said that it was a gift befitting a great King," Legolas said. "And that I was to tell you, you have proven yourself a great King."

Aragorn looked away. Arwen cleared her throat.

"Then on behalf of the King and myself, I thank you," she said. "This is generous beyond measure. Please convey our gratitude to the Elvenking when next you see him."

Legolas bowed. Arwen felt like swearing. Valar, now she was doing it! They were all hiding behind the ritual of protocol, cowering like children when there were real words that needed to be said. She had known Legolas all his life. More than anything now she wanted to simply hug him, to pull him close in joy and gratitude because he was here, and Aragorn was whole again, and they both lived. But the barrier of everything that had been said and done between them loomed too high for her to cross.

Gimli grunted. "Well now that's taken care of, I could do with something to eat. We've had nothing but waybread and dried fruit the last week. I don't suppose the kitchens are open?"

Aragorn looked as relieved as Arwen felt at the introduction of a safe topic of conversation. "Certainly," he said. "We can go down to the great hall."

"No need," Arwen said. "I'll have something sent up. I need to take this to the treasury in any case."

Taking the Chain of Oropher from Aragorn's unresisting hand, she closed it in its case and tucked it under her arm. She looked up to find the three males staring at her with almost identical expressions of surprise. She smiled back at them sweetly. "Legolas, would you escort me?"

Legolas blinked. He glanced from her to Aragorn, and Arwen saw Aragorn, meeting his gaze, give an almost imperceptible nod.

Legolas turned back to her and smiled. "Of course, my lady."

As they left the room Arwen heard Gimli settle into a chair behind her, causing its cushions to creak. "Well good for her," he said, apparently to no one in particular. "If anyone can get some sense out of that lad, she can."

Arwen waited until they had put several passageways between themselves and the Royal Chambers. In an empty corridor that led to the stairs down to the treasury she came to a halt beside a narrow arrow-slit window. Legolas stopped also, eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

"How are you?" Arwen said.

"I am well," Legolas said. "And Your Majesty?"

Arwen hesitated, and then, mustering her courage, she said, "I am many things but, mostly, now . . . I am ashamed."

Legolas looked at her in astonishment. "You have no cause for shame, my lady."

"Don't I?" Arwen said. "When I think of how I treated you, Legolas . . . I used you. I took advantage of your regard for me and I put you in danger."

Legolas turned to face her fully then, fixing her with an intent gaze. "I did not do it solely for your sake, my lady. I may not have loved him in the same way that you did, but never forget that I did love him. I would have gone to him with or without you."

Arwen swallowed. "I know," she said. "That's just it, don't you see? When you had paid the price that I could not, I begrudged Aragorn's healing of you. I was jealous of his love for you."

Legolas fell silent. He looked down, folding his arms across his chest. The pale light from the window fell in a narrow band across his hair and forehead, leaving his face partially in shadow.

"And do you feel that way still?" he said at last.

"No!" Arwen said. "No, of course not."

"Why not?" Legolas said. "Is it –" he stopped, and his jaw tightened. When he spoke again it was as if he were forcing himself to say the words. "Is it because I told you that I loved you?"

The strength seemed to drain from Arwen's arms and legs, leaving her weak. She bent down and set the case on the ground lest she drop it. Straightening up again, she took a deep breath. "No. It is because I love him, all of him. This past year I saw the worst and the best of him. His love for you is a part of the very best of him, Legolas. I would not have it any other way."

It was a moment before Legolas spoke. Finally he said, "You acted as any would have done, in love and fear for your husband. You have no reason to feel ashamed, my lady."

Arwen released a long breath in relief. Then looking at him she said, "Do you regret what you told me, Legolas?"

Legolas gave a strangled laugh, turning his face away. "The words? Yes. Every day. The feeling behind them? No. Never."

Arwen felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She looked down. "I don't know what to say."

"You need say nothing," Legolas said. "If I could take them back, I would. As it is I can only ask that you forget them. Your friendship is too precious for me to lose because of one moment of selfishness."

"It wasn't that," Arwen said. "It was never that." She stepped forward, taking his hands. "I have always treasured your friendship, and now I know it is even more dear than I imagined. How can I forget that? If we have come through the fire and now know the true strengths of our hearts, then isn't that a good thing? We will go on, all of us, better than before. You will see. You have nothing of which to be embarrassed, Legolas."

Legolas did not answer. Arwen waited, feeling the smile fade from her lips. Finally she said, "Please look at me."

He did so, reluctantly it seemed. She looked into his eyes. There was light there, and life, so different from the shadow that had once frightened her. Legolas looked almost as he had done when she first saw him in Minas Tirith, at the very beginning. Almost. And yet . . .

"There is an emptiness here," she touched his chest, just above the beat of his heart. "What is it? Is it the sea?"

Legolas stepped back. "No."

"What, then?"

Legolas bent and picked up the case that held the Chain of Oropher. "We should go. Gimli will be missing his tea."

"Legolas?" Arwen caught his arm, but he did not stop. He walked on swiftly, forcing her to hurry beside him. "What is it? Please tell me."

He paused, a bare hesitation in his stride, but then continued. "I never could refuse you anything. But I think . . . not this time. No."

Arwen bit her lip. "Will you tell Aragorn, then?"

Legolas stopped. At the threshold of the stairs he hesitated, and then said, "If he asks me."

"Will you give him the chance to ask?"

He shot her a look, part amusement, part respect, and said, "You cannot send him to ferret it out for you."

"I won't," Arwen said. "But if he seeks you on his own . . ."

Legolas sighed. "Yes. He will have the chance to ask."

Something was wrong. Aragorn could feel it, could see it in Arwen's eyes and in Legolas'. They at least had seemed easier with each other since their return with food and drink from the kitchens. The watchfulness, the careful formality between them was gone. But though she talked and ate with apparent ease, Arwen's eyes lingered on Legolas, and Aragorn saw the worried frown lines drawn between her brows. And though Legolas smiled at the right times, and spoke and even laughed; he seemed distant somehow. His gaze slipped past Aragorn and Arwen and even Gimli, as though he were reluctant to meet their eyes.

_Well what did you expect? _Aragorn thought, impatient with his own disappointment. _That we'd slay the enemy and all live happily ever after?_

He had seen soldiers returned from battle before. He had led companies home from the battlefield, both victorious and otherwise. Even those not physically injured were changed by war. Aragorn had seen brave men driven to despair months and even years later. Its effects on mind and spirit could not be dismissed, not even by the strongest warrior.

And Legolas . . . in his mind's eye Aragorn saw again the knife coming down, the jerk of his friend's body as it pierced his heart. What had that done to him? The scene of Dragaer's cabin, the barriers within Legolas' _mind _had broken apart. What did that mean for him now?

It was not just the awkwardness of coming together again, of pretending normalcy after everything that had happened. Something was missing. Aragorn found himself trying to catch Legolas' eye, searching for something he could not name.

He had hopes, when they went to the nursery. After all, Eldarion had helped Legolas before, or he seemed to. And indeed at first it seemed his hopes were realized, for when Eldarion saw the Elf he broke into a broad grin and stretched pudgy arms toward him. Legolas, lifting him up, smiled almost as greatly, and laughed aloud when Eldarion seized double handfuls of his hair with a crow of delight.

He did manage to disentangle himself from Eldarion's grip by slipping a gift from his pocket: the figure of a horse in full gallop, whittled by Legolas, Gimli said, during the journey from Eryn Lasgalen to Minas Tirith. Eldarion's eyes grew wide when he saw it, and releasing Legolas' hair he grasped the horse eagerly, and then tried to put it in his mouth.

But even with the baby in his arms Legolas was still removed, with them but apart. Aragorn was past concerned now. He was growing worried, and beyond that he was frustrated.

He took Gimli aside at the evening meal and asked him directly. "What is it?"

Gimli didn't bother to ask what he meant. "You've noticed then. I didn't think it would take long. Blamed if I know – he's better, you can see that he's better, he's practically completely healed now . . . but he isn't." He shrugged. "It's the _sigin-narag_, the war sickness.2 It must be."

"Is it?" Aragorn said.

"What else could it be? If it was still the – the how d'you say it – the _delgurth_, he would be dead now."

"I know." Aragorn glanced toward where Legolas was sitting with Arwen. To all appearances they were listening to the small group of musicians who played on a low dais in the center of the great hall. But Legolas' gaze was abstracted, as though he were looking inward at something only he could see. Aragorn suddenly doubted that he could hear the music at all.

"Is it the sea-longing, do you think?"

Gimli grunted. "I wondered that – but it's different. He isn't the same as he was before. And he hasn't mentioned the sea." He shook his head. "You'll have to ask him. He won't even admit to me that there's anything wrong."

Arwen said much the same thing that night as they were preparing for bed. "I think it's a matter between a healer and his patient," she said, and kissed him. "Don't worry, my love. You'll know what to do."

Which was of no help at all.

Aragorn had difficulty sleeping that night. He lay awake, gazing into the darkness for a long time. When he finally fell into a fitful slumber he dreamed of Dragaer, standing over him. He was naked, bound upon a bed in a room lit by a flickering orange light. As the Corsair reached for him he knew: Minas Tirith was burning. Dragaer would take him here while Minas Tirith burned. He tried to fight, choking in rage and despair . . . and then the scene dissolved, and he was standing upon a high cliff overlooking the sea. The wind blew the empty grasses at his feet, and the setting sun stretched a glittering path over the water. He squinted, holding his hand up to shade his eyes, and saw a grey ship sailing away, following the path of light to the horizon.

Aragorn bolted awake. He sat upright, staring into the dark while gradually his heart slowed. Beside him Arwen lay still, her breath slow and regular. A faint light was edging the draperies over the windows, enough for him to make out the shapes of the wardrobe and the washstand by the wall. It was almost dawn.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. He knew what to do. He knew it with a certainty as great as the sorrow that still lingered from the dream, the grief that had filled him as he watched that grey ship sailing away.

He dressed as quietly as he could in the dark and slipped out the door, shutting it carefully behind him. He did not see Arwen lift her head as he left, nor was he aware as she watched him go.

Sounds carried in the citadel. Footsteps rang on the marble passages, and the high ceilings and long empty walls picked up and carried every echo. Aragorn's ranger training was a match for these challenges but now, standing in the passage outside Legolas' door, he knew that knocking was not an option.

So he whistled. "_Sun-up-wake-up_," the four note call of northern Mirkwood's morning warbler.

He waited, and shortly heard an answering call from within. He turned the handle – but the door did not move. There was a pause. Then came the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and the door opened.

"I forgot," Legolas said. "Sorry." He was already crossing the room back to where the door of his balcony stood open. He was fully dressed, his boots laced and a hunting dagger at his hip. Aragorn wondered if he'd bothered to sleep at all last night.

"It's all right," Aragorn said. He did not say what they both knew: that Legolas had never used to lock his door.

He followed the Elf out onto the balcony. The sunrise was in the east, behind them, but from here he could see the dark mass of the hills that circled to the south and west. An edge of pale pink just touched the southern hills. The sky was a deep indigo into which the stars were slipping one by one.

Legolas sat on the balcony railing, pulling a knee up to his chest. He looked out over the empty stretch of the courtyard. "Did you speak to Arwen?"

Aragorn blinked. "No. Why? Should I have?"

Legolas turned his head, resting one cheek against his knee while he cast a searching look at Aragorn. "No," he said at last. "It's all right."

Aragorn returned the look. "All right," he said. "Then may I ask a question?"

Legolas nodded.

"What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something is wrong?"

Aragorn rolled his eyes. "Let's see. Three months ago you accused me of harboring suspicions against you and Arwen. You're distracted, moody, distant . . . actually, now that I think of it, everything that the Dwarves accuse Elves of being. I should send word to Thorin of Erebor. He'd be delighted."

Legolas grimaced. "I am sorry. I did not intend to evade the question. It . . . is difficult to talk about, that is all."

Aragorn nodded. "I gathered that." He leaned on his elbows over the balcony rail. The sky was a deep blue now, with traces of pink extending to the south. Birds were waking, piping their songs to the morning.

"I still have dreams about it," Aragorn said after a time. "Not every night, but . . . I dream about him. Dragaer. It can take years to recover from trauma, of course – Faramir once told me that he still dreams of the pyre. But I wake up and I think: I only experienced the _memory _of it. What you must be going through . . ." he trailed off.

Legolas did not answer. He was staring toward the western hills, unblinking.

"When did you last sleep, Legolas?"

"Two nights ago," Legolas said. "I did not dream of the Corsair."

He glanced sidelong at Aragorn. "Elves do not dream as mortals do. You gave me the choice of whether to look upon those memories, and I do not choose to walk that path in dreams."

"What is it, then?" Aragorn said.

Legolas drew a slow breath. "You remember when you entered the . . . memory of Dragaer's cabin. What you saw."

It was etched into Aragorn's mind: the image of Legolas bound, stretched upon the bed. He nodded.

Legolas sighed. "When Dragaer took me I told myself that it was the sea. In order to survive, I transferred it – the pain, the shame, the anger – everything into the sea-longing. But in order to do that I had to also feel it. A part of me had to experience the _delgurth_ as it truly was."

Aragorn frowned. "He told me," he said slowly. "Dragaer said that so long as . . . that part of you . . . lived, the _delgurth _would also."

Legolas turned his head to look at him, his eyebrows raised. "You knew? Then you knew how to escape. But you stayed. Why?"

"What choice did I have? I couldn't risk hurting you on his say-so!"

Legolas studied him for a moment. "You had a choice," he said at last. "You always had a choice."

Aragorn shook his head. "I didn't know what it would do to you. Legolas, a person cannot partition himself into separate beings! You can't just – just block off a part of yourself from the rest of your mind. Not even an Elf can do that."

"No," Legolas said. "He cannot. And no Elf can survive the _delgurth_ and also remain in Middle-earth. An Elf who is raped and does not sail . . . dies."

Aragorn stared at him. His throat was dry. "But you can't die," he whispered.

"I _did _die," Legolas said. "The part of me that was trapped in the _delgurth _died. I killed him myself."

Aragorn rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't understand. What does that mean? What happens now?"

"Now? We go on. You rule your people. I continue my work in Ithilien. The Orcs have been harassing us again . . . perhaps you and I might take a warrior party and root them out. I think that I would enjoy that."

Legolas paused, gazing into the courtyard. The White Tree was just becoming visible, its slender branches distinct against the velvet darkness of the grass.

"And when you have lived long and have grown full of years, and the time comes when you depart this world . . . then I will leave also. I will sail from these shores, and the longing will be answered at last. And by the Valar's grace, in the Undying Lands, I will be whole again."

Aragorn swallowed. "But I thought . . . I wanted you to be healed now. I tried . . ."

Legolas laughed. "You did heal me! Elbereth, Aragorn, did you think my father sent you the Chain of Oropher because he thought that it would suit you? No Elf in the history of Middle-earth has suffered as I have and lived. And no Man in history has sacrificed more greatly than you did, to save a friend."

"I might say the same about you," Aragorn said.

Legolas sobered. "You might," he said. "It was not a coincidence that the Valar's call returned to me as I held Eldarion in my arms. Aragorn . . . Estel. I held your son, and I saw Hope restored. There could be no greater healing of the spirit than that. But you cannot expect me to return as if nothing had happened. Some scars . . . remain."

Aragorn ran his hands over the railing, feeling the marble smooth and cold beneath his palms. His fingers closed upon it, tightened. "You do not need to wait. You could sail now."

"I could," Legolas said. "But I will not. I will stay."

"A friend would not ask you to do that."

"A friend," Legolas said, "would not need to."

"I could order you to go."

Legolas smiled. "So could my father, far more effectively. But he will not. You will learn, Estel, that the secret of good Kingship is to not command your subjects in things that they will not do."

Aragorn sighed. The swifts were out now, darting over the city rooftops. He watched them as they climbed and dove in wild, soaring arcs. _Some scars remain._ But even scarred, Legolas possessed the greatest spirit that Aragorn had ever known. When he thought of all that Legolas had done . . . a spirit like his might overcome the loss. A spirit like his might do _anything._

"You mentioned something about Orcs," he said after a time.

"Mmm," Legolas said. "Remnants from Mordor's destruction. I think that they are holed up in the western hills of the Ephel Duath. From there they send raids against our settlements."

"We should stop them."

"We? You mean, you and I? The King of Gondor and a Prince of Eryn Lasgalen, going out alone against the agents of the Enemy?"

"Well, when you put it like that," Aragorn began, and then caught the glint in Legolas' eye. They exchanged a long look.

"If anything happens to you, your father will hang my body from the highest tree in Mirkwood," Aragorn said.

"You had better come with me, then, to make sure that nothing happens," Legolas said.

"Gimli won't let you go without him."

"Well, now we have to go," Legolas said. "He'd never forgive me if I kept him from a good fight."

"A good fight," Aragorn mused. "With sword and axe and bow against a real enemy with no mind games and no tricks and no palantír _anywhere _involved . . ."

Legolas met his gaze. Slowly they both began to smile.

"When the sunlight reaches the top of those hills," Legolas said. "Then we go and wake Gimli."

Aragorn grinned, leaning against the railing. "Sounds like _fun_."

Together, they watched the sky grow light.

The End.

1 _Gîl síla erin lû govaded vîn: _Sindarin, "A star shines on the hour of our meeting." Readers will note that this phrase is different than the one that Frodo said in greeting to Gildor, '_Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo.'_ The difference, of course, is that Frodo spoke in the High Elven tongue, Quenya, which even Gildor noted was not used much anymore. As a Wood-elf, Legolas would speak Sindarin.

2 _sigin-narag: _Khuzdul, literally "the long black." Intended here as a Dwarven term for post-traumatic stress disorder.

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**Coming in 2013:** _The Gloaming_, an original novel by Lamiel. In a world ruled by monsters, you have to be a monster to survive.


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